Spooky Brew
by Karalora
Summary: When a certain "terrifying" spirit sets up shop in a shuttered brewery, it's up to the Nordic boys to go ghost-hunting and thwart its sinister plan! If only they can manage to avoid being sidetracked by the merchandise...
1. Prologue

_A/N: See? I totally had at least one more in me! This one will be a bit longer than "The Prank War" and as a result will be released in installments. As it gets more into the action, I might take suggestions for hijinks that can ensue. You'll see what I mean later! And now, on with the show!_

* * *

><p>Prologue<p>

It was a dark and stormy night.

No, wait.

Actually, it was a bright and lazy afternoon.

It was the sort of afternoon where there probably _are_ worthwhile, productive things you could be doing, but the air and the light infect you with a pervasive lethargy in order to prevent it, so what you do instead is invite a friend over and get moderately sloshed while watching the kinds of shows on TV that are only amusing when you are moderately sloshed.

Denmark loved these kinds of afternoons. A bag of chips, a case of beer, and Norway—what could be more perfect?

In something close to unison, the two of them finished off their current bottles, tossed them aside, opened new ones, clinked them with a cry of "Skål!" and took long swigs. They could have been members of the Scandinavian Synchronized Boozing Team. They even had a mascot…of a sort.

"Uuuuuuuuuuh! Beer for me?"

"_No!_" Denmark said for what had to be the twentieth time, flicking a flyswatter at the interloper. It passed through its target instead of striking, but it had the desired effect. The third, uninvited member of the informal drinking party shuffled off to slurp the last few drops out of the new empties.

On second thought, things could have been a _little_ more perfect.

They called it the Beer Ghost. Every wandering spirit has a singular purpose that drives its existence, and for this one, that purpose was drinking beer. Any beer. All beer it could find, regardless of whom it belonged to. It could really put the stuff away, despite being only the size of a very well-fed hamster. Denmark was forever find it trying to insinuate its way into his fridge, or sneaking down into his cellar and beating itself futilely against the unopened cases. Fortunately it didn't have hands with which to open bottles or cans, or he would have been in real trouble.

Sometimes—most of the time—he was scared of it. He considered this a logical response, given that he occasionally had nightmares where it drank _all the beer in the world_, leaving none at all for him. _None._ But on a day like today, even the supernatural will of the undead was no match for the lassitude of the afternoon, and its token efforts to claim each newly opened bottle were nothing to worry about. Denmark had his flyswatter, and he and Norway didn't really mind if the ghost went after the empties.

Something funny must have happened in the TV show, because there was a round of prompted laughter from the audience. Norway perked up slightly, squinted at the wall clock, and said "Hey, Denmark?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you change it? The TV? To that thing where the people talk about stuff?" (It wasn't that he was too drunk to remember the words he wanted, but the combination of alcohol and laziness had done it.)

"Talk about stuff?" Denmark repeated blankly.

"Yeah. Stuff from today. You know what thing I mean."

There was a pause while Denmark processed that. "The news?"

"Yes! The news." Norway sat up straighter and let his head clear a bit. "It's almost time for the sports report. I want to see if my sister beat Sister Sweden in football."

The Beer Ghost perked up some too, responding to the change in the room. "More beer for me?" it said hopefully.

"No," said Denmark, groping blindly around the couch for the TV remote. He found it and changed the channel with a flourish.

There were still a few minutes to go in the Local News segment, and reporter-on-the-spot Sister Denmark was using them to cover a human interest story about the impending closure of an old brewery.

"You're finally shutting that place down?" said Norway. "I'm surprised. I thought all the equipment still worked just fine. And isn't it historic?"

"Gotta move with the times," Denmark replied languidly. "We're opening a new one. State-of-the-art. Way bigger, too."

"But it's historic."

"Oh, don't worry about that. After we get the new place up and running, we're turning that one into a museum. A beer museum. It'll be _awesome_."

Norway nodded slowly. "It sounds awesome."

The Beer Ghost stared at the TV as Sister Denmark chirped some final feel-good platitudes over a long shot of the shuttered facility. It looked up at Denmark. "Beer there?"

"Not anymore," Denmark almost said. Halfway through the sentence, however, he spotted an opportunity to rid himself of the annoying spirit, at least for a while, and quickly revamped his statement. What he ended up saying was "Not any…beer _you've_ ever tried before."

"Uuuuhhhhhh…" the Beer Ghost crooned, fascinated. Then, with a soft sound like a head of foam fizzing up in a mug, it simply vanished.

Norway blinked at the spot where it had been. "Huh. Did it leave?"

"We can only hope," said Denmark. He examined the bottle in his hand, which was still mostly full. "Skål!" he said, tossing back.

"Skål!" Norway agreed.

Somewhere far away, a faint and windy voice echoed, "Skål!"

That was almost a month ago.

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 1

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rainy, anyway. And definitely dark, since that's pretty much the _definition_ of "night." In a few hours, it would be a dim and drizzly morning.

Denmark's phone rang, jolting him out of a sound sleep. He was not pleased—he had been dreaming about Sister Sweden and some kind of chocolate mousse dessert. He would have _killed_ to remember the context.

"Hello?" he croaked into the transmitter.

"Denmark! It's Greenland!"

"Greenland? Oh, for god's sake…do you have any idea what time it is over here?"

"This is important!"

Denmark groaned and scrubbed at his face with his free hand. "Just put a bucket under it and I'll send someone to fix it in the morning."

"It's not that. Do you remember that little ghost? The one that steals beer?"

"Remember it? I just _saw_ it a few weeks ago."

"Really? Does it show up often?"

"More often than I'd like."

"Quick! How much beer does it usually drink?"

"Not that much. I think the most it ever got at once was a four-pack. Why?"

"Okay…okay. Not as much of a crisis as I thought."

"What crisis? Why do you care how much beer that damn ghost manages to drink? It's never _your_ beer."

"I've been doing some reading. You want to know why it drinks beer? Because that's the source of its supernatural powers! More beer means a stronger ghost, and a stronger ghost is a more dangerous ghost. Up until now, that thing has only been harmless because it's been weak. It's obviously hostile to the living."

"Right. Hostile ghost. No give too much beer. I _get_ it, Greenland. I'm going to hang up now. Next time don't call me so late unless it's really an emergency." He punched the button to end the call and flopped back down onto his pillow. "Jeez. Stupid Greenland."

He began to drift off.

Sister Sweden. Chocolate mousse.

Beer Ghost.

He rolled over, distracted by the thought. What _had_ happened to it, anyway? It had been hanging around that one time, and then the subject of the old brewery had come up, and—

Denmark sat bolt upright. _Crap! Crap crap crap crapcrapcrapcrapcrap…_

He glanced over at the phone, hesitated for an agonizing moment, and then dialed Greenland's number.

"Hypothetical question for you," he lied smoothly. "What would happen if that ghost drank, say, all the beer that was left in a brewery that had closed down?"

"It would depend on how much that was."

"Just give me the worst-case scenario."

Greenland told him.

"I see. Good to know. Thank you for your time."

Denmark hung up and whimpered into his pillow for several minutes.

Then he made some more phone calls. It wasn't as if he would be able to fall asleep again after news like that. He didn't see why Norway and Sweden should get any more sleep either.

* * *

><p>The heavy gate swung open with a groan like an entire house settling all at once. After a brief cringe, the three Scandinavians stepped through onto the brewery grounds. Norway pulled it closed behind them, and it made the same sound in reverse.<p>

"Well, that's not ominous or anything," said Sweden. "How long ago did you close this place down again? 150 years?"

"Last month," Denmark corrected him irritably. "It always does that in the rain."

"If you say so. Frankly, I'm not sure we should be doing this in this kind of weather."

"Doing what?" said Norway. "We're just going to take a quick look around to see if that little ghost really is here. It's not like it's raining hard."

"You say that now," Sweden said with a wry smile, "but I've seen this movie before. Once we get in there, the door will lock behind us and this will kick up into a storm and knock out the power and we'll be trapped in the dark with a territorial ghost."

"Sweden! Don't _say_ things like that!" Denmark burst out. "Don't make this any worse than it has to be!"

"All right, all right. But there is a distinct possibility of a power failure if the rain gets worse."

"No there's not."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because the power's already shut off," said Denmark, bringing out a hefty Maglite as they approached the entrance to the main storage warehouse. "I wasn't going to keep the place juiced up when it's closed and about to be remodeled."

"Wait a minute…so we _are_ going to be looking for a ghost in the dark?" said Norway. "Denmark, I know you came up with this plan at three-thirty this morning, but didn't you think it through at all?"

"Guys, we don't have much of a choice," said Denmark. "If anything's going on here, we have to nip it in the bud." He dropped his voice into a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "_Beer_ is at stake." He returned to his normal tone. "Like you said, we'll be in and out. And if we have to, we can come back with a better plan and more…you know…stuff. Ghost-hunting stuff. Like special mirrors and EMP detector thingies and ugly jumpsuits with backpacks. Stuff like that."

They reached the door. Denmark turned the handle and opened it without ceremony.

"You had the electricity shut off, but you didn't lock up?" said Sweden.

"Who's going to break into a closed-down brewery with no electricity?" said Denmark.

"The Beer Ghost," Norway and Sweden chorused at once.

They went inside. It wasn't completely dark—a little dismal light from the overcast sky filtered in through the dingy, cobwebby skylights—but they were glad of the Maglite. The warehouse was crowded with shipping crates, sacks of raw ingredients, broken machinery, and even a few pieces of office furniture, all heaped together any old how in the rush to move production to the new facility. The piles divided the space into a virtual maze of pathways.

The air absolutely reeked of beer. The flashlight's glow reflected off shallow puddles of it, in varying stages of spoilage. There were a few broken bottles here and there, but most of the ones they saw were intact and empty.

"What a criminal waste," Denmark said mournfully.

"What about the rats?" said Norway.

Denmark paled. "Rats…?"

"Yeah. Where are they? A mess like this should have attracted dozens of them. Or cockroaches, or _something_. But it's just us in here."

"Well, they say animals can sense the presence of the supernatural," said Sweden. "And they don't like it." He fished his own light, a slim but powerful penlight, out of his pocket and flicked it on so that he could sweep the almost laser-like beam around the cluttered warehouse. "Hmm…I think I've played this video game before, too. We'll need to be methodical and explore every corner. I just hope no areas are completely blocked off."

"Where's the level boss?" said Norway. "Maybe once we beat him, we'll get a sledgehammer or a flamethrower or something that we can use to break through the barricades."

"Ha ha ha," said Sweden. "Let's get going."

"Hey, I'm leading this mission!" Denmark protested. "So…let's…get going."

The three of them began their trek through the meandering paths created by the stacked junk. They ran into any number of dead ends, as well as places where the concrete floor was uneven and the sour beer was deep enough to splash as they walked. The empty bottles were everywhere (and every bottle they saw was empty)…but there was nowhere _near_ enough spilled beer to have filled them.

"Whoever's been in here, they've sure been busy," said Norway.

"If I had to guess, I'd say it was just wild teens. Anyone could have gotten in with the door unlocked," said Sweden. "Besides, doesn't that ghost need to have the bottles already opened?"

"I hope you're right," said Denmark.

After they had followed every twist and turn of the available floor space and found nothing concrete, they took a break, dragging a few crates out of one of the piles to use as seats. Sweden got out his cell phone, on which he had been running a GPS application in order to track their movements. The path they had taken through the warehouse appeared as a bright blue line.

"Here," he said. "This way we'll be able to tell if there's any spot we might have missed, and if not, we'll at least have the quickest route back to the door."

The other two scootched closer in order to take a look. Norway pointed at a large blank spot near the middle of the map. "That must be that one really big stack we went around. There could be an empty space inside it. Maybe we should check it out."

"No…I'm pretty sure that's where the busted distilling tank is," said Denmark. "I guess we should move on to the rest of the complex."

"What all is here?" asked Sweden. "Was everything done on-site?"

"You bet!" Denmark said. "Brewing, bottling, shipping, administration…the whole works!"

"That's…unusually organized for you. I might have known that the one thing that could get you to…" Sweden trailed off, sensing a change in the air. They all felt it, in the way that you just _know_ when someone enters or leaves a room behind your back. They twisted to look behind them, and—

It—

Was—

Right—

_THERE._

And it was _huge_. No longer coming in a convenient pocket size, it towered over them (although that was partly because they were sitting), easily as large as a chubby bear. Its eyes alone were the size of car tires, and in the near-darkness of the warehouse, they seemed to give off a sickly light of their own. The three nations' own eyes were almost as large, with shock.

It slowly reached for them. It was _capable_ of reaching now, by extruding weird little pseudopodia like an amoeba. Denmark made a high-pitched, strangled noise that certainly would have been a scream had he not been suddenly breathless with terror.

And then the Beer Ghost roared. It was the same noise they were all familiar with, but many times louder, and with odd harmonics that made it sound like it was singing a chord in four-part harmony with itself—the sort of chord used in stage performances as a musical sting to announce the entrance of the villain, only sustained:

"**UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH!**"

Denmark fainted, eyes rolling up as he toppled backward off his crate. Norway lunged to catch him. "Whoa, Denmark!" The Maglite hit the floor hard and went out, leaving only Sweden's phone display and the hulking form of the Beer Ghost for illumination.

"This is the part where we run!" said Sweden. Norway threw Denmark over his shoulder, and they took to their heels.

The ghost followed, still moaning its freaky loud moan and making as if to grab them. They were faster than it, but not by so much that they could afford to take many wrong turns. "Stay close!" said Sweden, using the map on his phone as a guide.

Even with the help of the GPS app, it was easy for them to misjudge the path in the inadequate light, and they came within a hair's breadth of crashing into the heaps a few times. Once, Sweden slipped in a beer puddle and nearly dropped his phone and Norway, maintaining his grip on Denmark's slack weight, couldn't do much to help him up. They were never more than a dozen steps ahead of the ghost until they reached the door. Sweden snatched up a length of pipe from one of the heaps and, once they were outside, wedged it underneath the door to keep it from being opened from within. Even so, they continued running until they had made it back through the creaky gate.

Sweden flattened his back against the complex's outer wall and let himself slide to the ground, ignoring the dampness. After falling in sour beer, a little water wouldn't hurt anything. "Now I know how Pac-Man feels," he muttered. "How's Denmark?"

"Fine, I think," said Norway, gently lowering him to the pavement.

In fact, he was coming around, roused by the cool raindrops. He groaned and put a hand to his head.

"Welcome back," said Norway.

"Oh, that's convenient," said Sweden. "Denmark, you missed all the 'fun' stuff!"

"My head is killing me," Denmark said. "Sorry if I threw up on you, Norway."

"You didn't," said Norway. "Wait, why would you have?"

"Wasn't I smashed? I feel like I was smashed."

"Now that you mention it," said Sweden, "I've got a headache too. I guess the adrenaline rush was covering it before."

"Hey, me too," said Norway. "And my mouth feels…bleah. Do you think the ghost did this to us?"

Denmark sat up suddenly, yelling. "The ghost! Guys, did you _see_ it? It was humongous!"

"Of course we saw it," said Sweden. "We _ran away_ from it while you were having your naptime. And, apparently, it inflicted us with hangovers. Or at least hangover symptoms."

"Oh, man—it _is_ getting more powerful!" Denmark said. "What are we gonna do, guys?"

"We'll do like you said," Sweden shrugged. "We'll come back, better prepared."

"I think we should come back with more _help_," said Norway.

"Crap," said Denmark, looking faintly sick. "I think I need to talk to Greenland again."

To Be Continued…


	3. Chapter 2

The creature was on a leash, but that didn't make it a dog. Black dogs are just black, not the soul-sucking ebon darkness of the infinite night. And their eyes don't glow.

"_What the hell is that?_" Denmark demanded, scaling the upper reaches of Norway (to the latter's mild annoyance) in order to put more distance between himself and the alarming _thing_ accompanying the last member of the team to arrive. The others reacted similarly, if not quite to the same extent. Finland also whipped out his knife and held it ready.

"Guys, say hello to Sauma!" said Iceland, scratching the demon behind the ears. It snapped at his hand in what the rest of them could only assume was a playful fashion.

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Sweden. "You know, Iceland, some people might view this as counter-productive."

"How so?"

"We're going in there to _fight_ a monster!" said Denmark. "We don't need to be bringing another one in with us!"

"But Sauma's a great tracker!"

"You mean by scent?" asked Norway

"More or less. He can smell your heartbeat and hear the secret fears that lurk in the innermost recesses of your soul! Isn't that _great_?"

"I suppose," said Sweden, "if by 'great' you mean 'thoroughly disturbing.'"

"Could be useful in there, though, right?"

"Not really," said Greenland. "Ghosts don't have beating hearts, and this one doesn't feel fear, it _causes_ it."

Iceland was crestfallen, but only for an instant. "Oh. Well, I'm sure we'll find _something_ for him to do!"

"We most certainly will _not_!" said Denmark, with an emphatic gesture that almost overbalanced him and Norway. "This is _my_ brewery, and I'm declaring it a No-Demon Zone!"

"You know how he gets," Sweden said to Iceland. "You'd better…dismiss it, or whatever you do, or we'll never get this underway."

Iceland frowned, but he bent down and unhooked the demon's leash from whatever it was attached to. (It didn't seem to be wearing a collar.) "Sorry, Sauma. Looks like we won't be having an adventure together after all. Go on home. Go on."

"Sauma" took a friendly swipe at his face with its sickle-like claws. Then it streaked away down the street, making a hideous chittering noise and leaving a trail of semi-molten asphalt.

"I have to say, this is not getting off to a good start," said Greenland. "So is this everyone, then? Can I start the briefing?"

"Yeah, go ahead" said Denmark, returning to base camp.

"Okay, here's the deal: The Beer Ghost is trying to breed."

"Ghosts can breed?" said Norway.

"They can multiply, yes. Based on what you guys told me about your first visit, it's pretty well cleaned the place out and become much larger and more powerful as a result. According to the folklore I've been studying, its next move will be to try making its own batch of booze. The details are sketchy, but apparently once it gets the formula just right, it can drink _that_ and gain the power to split into an army. Think about that for a second: an army of Beer Ghosts. No beer in the world would be safe!"

There was a collective shudder.

"My point exactly. For all we know, the 'special sauce' is already being made in there. So you're going in to do two things—spoil whatever it's making, and defeat the ghost itself. Just remember that you can't hurt a ghost with physical objects unless they're related to the ghost's purpose. In this case, beer bottles should work as weapons. But you still won't be able to kill it—just drive it away temporarily. You can't kill something that's already dead."

"So how do we defeat it?" asked Sweden.

"You have to counteract its power. It gains strength from beer, so find some sort of, I don't know, _anti-beer_ to weaken it back to what it was."

"Hang on," said Denmark. "You keep saying 'you.' Aren't you coming with us?"

"Do I _look_ suicidal?" Greenland retorted. "Besides, I'm going kayaking with Canada over the weekend and I still have to pack. This is on you guys. I'm just the wise mentor who gives you advice and then vanishes." He checked his watch. "Gotta vanish. Don't fail. You might as well try not to die, either. That would kind of suck for you." He turned to leave, paused, and turned back to add, "One more thing…if you do find any more beer around the place, destroy it. Pour it down a drain or something. Otherwise the ghost can use it to recharge. Keep the bottles if you think you'll need them, but I do _not_ recommend drinking it. See you around if you survive." Then he took off.

No one said anything for a moment. Then Iceland piped up. "That jerk!"

"I know," said Denmark. "I swear, one of these days I'm going to sell him to Russia or something."

"Not Greenland, Canada! He promised to invite _me_ on his next kayaking trip!"

"What grave injustices we suffer," Sweden deadpanned. "Are we doing this or not?"

"We are definitely doing this," said Denmark.

For the second time in only a few days, he swung the brewery gate open. The weather was dry this time, and it hardly creaked at all. It seemed like a good sign.

* * *

><p>They began with the central building this time. Denmark hadn't gotten the electricity turned back on, and it was just as dark as the warehouse had been—darker, at first, since they went in by a side door to avoid attracting attention and started out in a corridor without the benefit of skylights. Fortunately, they were kitted out with some basic ghost-hunting gear, including a flashlight apiece.<p>

It was just an ordinary access corridor, devoid of interest and ending in a T-junction after maybe ten meters. "So what's the plan?" asked Norway.

"We should go after the batch of booze before we go after the ghost," said Denmark. "Buy ourselves some time in case the ghost is more than we can handle for now."

"I think before we do anything, we should set up some sort of home base," said Sweden. "Denmark, you said there were administration offices here? We can use one of those as a…I don't want to say a panic room, but someplace secure we can retreat to if necessary."

"Yeah, sure," said Denmark. "Actually, if I'm remembering right, this is the office wing right here." They reached the T-junction and aimed their flashlights left and right. The perpendicular hallway stretched away in both directions, lined with doors on both sides. "Yep. Office wing. Let's use one of the executive suites."

They found a good-sized office with most of the furniture still in it and began rearranging things to be more defensible. They tipped the desk up on end and placed it next to the door so that they could push it over for an instant barricade…or at least that was the plan. Five people trying to move the furniture around even a large office tend to get in each other's way. After about the fourth instance of Norway and Iceland bumping into each other and Denmark rolling the swivel chair over Finland's foot and Sweden clobbering someone with a floor lamp and someone else knocking over the filing cabinet, they decided to split into two groups.

Iceland and Finland stayed behind to finish setting up the room, figuring that between the one's geographic isolation and the other's habitual misanthropy, they knew what they were doing when it came to keeping unwanted things out. Meanwhile, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway went to do a little preliminary scouting, to get a feel for the place and maybe some insight into the Beer Ghost's activities.

As it turns out, moving furniture—even in a context such as this—is really boring, so we'll follow the second group.

Denmark took the lead since it was his brewery and he knew his way around the place. They kept their flashlight beams constantly in motion and looked back every few seconds, wary of another potential ambush.

Soon they left the office area and came to the main distillery, a vast, tall space much like the storage warehouse, but better organized. The middle of it was dominated by the brewing equipment: a forest of tanks and lifts and hoppers and chutes and pipes and valves and gauges and vents and all the other devices needed to make beer happen. The remaining space had largely been cleared out, although one corner held a few 50-kilo sacks of malted barley and a broken yeast cake that would have looked right at home in an archaeological site in the Yucatan.

It was mostly dark, and, but for the three Scandinavians' footsteps, silent. None of the machines were running…although that shouldn't have been surprising since there was no electricity for them to run _on_. Sweden pointed this out, and went on to say, "Maybe things aren't as bad as Greenland thought. If the ghost can't even use all this stuff, it can't make its 'special brew,' right?"

"This isn't all of it, though," said Denmark. "There's still…Brynhildr."

"And who or what is Brynhildr?" asked Norway.

"An experimental brewing apparatus from the 1890s."

"What was the experiment?" said Sweden.

"To see how big I could make it and still have it work. The fermenting vat alone is as big as my house. We had to build an annex just to accommodate it while it was being assembled. We never ended up using it, though. It was steam-driven, and we finished it right around the time we converted the place to electric."

"So what you're saying is, the Beer Ghost can use it with the power shut off," said Sweden.

"Bingo," said Denmark.

"So let's go check it out," said Norway.

On the way to the annex, they passed through a hallway, a file storage room, another hallway with two corners in it, a service bay for delivery trucks, and _another_ hallway. The last hallway was straight, and quite long…and looked longer with the way their flashlight beams grew sparse by the time they reached the door at the far end. It looked eerie. It looked like a trap.

"Well," said Denmark with a nervous titter, "that's where we're going."

"I do _not_ like this," said Sweden. "I wish we'd brought more of the gear."

"Well, don't freak out," said Norway. "At least nothing can ambush us in here, right?"

"Don't do that," said Sweden.

"Do what?"

"Tempt fate. Let's just get this over with and get back to the others."

They set off down the corridor. Nothing happened and nothing happened and nothing happened and nothing happened and by the time they were about halfway along, they had become aware of sounds and vibrations originating from beyond the door.

"Sounds like running machinery, all right," said Norway. "And look." He aimed his light toward the top of the door, where puffs of vapor were drifting into the hallway from the other side. "Steam."

"Oh, _man_," said Denmark. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"No," said Sweden. "Something just occurred to me. We know the ghost is probably making its booze in there, but we don't know how close it is to _finishing_ it. Maybe we should go in there now and spoil it, just in case. It would suck big-time if we left now and the ghost won in the next fifteen minutes."

"You're out of your mind, Sweden," said Denmark. "You were _just_ wishing we had more gear with us."

"I know…but we'll just have to deal with things as they are. At the very least, we should look in on things."

"Just one problem," said Norway. "If the ghost is in there, it's bound to notice if we open the door. And if we ruin its beer, we'll piss it off. Shouldn't we wait to do that until we're armed or something?"

Sweden made a face that seemed to be equal parts anxiety and disgust, and then continued down the hallway at a brisk pace. With nothing else to do about it, the other two followed, and nothing happened and nothing happened and nothing happened and nothing happened and then they were almost at the door…and the little streamers of steam issuing over the top suddenly reversed their course as if the pressure on the other side had dropped, and then tendrils of mist starting curling out _underneath_ the door, and a sensation of cold began to seep into the hallway. It was not exactly the chill of the grave. It was more like the chill of something refrigerated to thirst-quenching perfection. But it was, in any case, much too abrupt to be natural. And then…

The door handle began to turn, _just_ as Sweden was reaching for it. He withdrew his hand as though it had been bitten and skittered backward a few paces to where the others were. Or would have been, had they not already started running. Swallowing his indignation at being abandoned, Sweden scrambled after them.

He was about at the hallway's midpoint, Denmark and Norway a few meters ahead of him, when the door jolted open behind them, the cold rushed up to engulf them, and they heard the ear-twisting moan of the new and improved, or at least greatly enlarged, Beer Ghost.

"**BEER **_**MINE**_**!**" it informed them. This was followed by a roar, and they were only just able to recognize the tone of it before the effects hit. Sweden, closest to the ghost, took the brunt of the hangover-inducing attack. Suddenly his stomach was performing an off-kilter version of "Caramelldansen," with his head pounding out the perky house beat. It was so intense that he staggered into the wall and, as long as he was there, used it for support while the initial rush of dizziness subsided.

"Guys!" he called out weakly. "Little help, maybe?"

He was almost surprised when they turned back toward him. Unfortunately, their flashlights turned with them. He clamped his too-sensitive eyes shut and wobbled forward blind until they got the message.

"Look at his face," said Denmark. "It really hit him hard this time."

"It's still coming!" said Norway. "Gotta move!"

Sweden recovered enough of his balance to move on his own, though it wasn't pleasant. At least the going was easier this time, and if anything the ghost was slower than before. They made it to the other end of the hallway, through the garage, and into the crooked hallway, where they paused just past the second corner. Sweden sat down with his knees drawn up and his head pillowed on his arms in order let it clear a bit, while the other two stood guard. After a little while, when no pursuing noises or creeping cold arrived, they began to relax.

"I think it stopped following us," said Norway. "How are you holding up, Sweden?"

"I might live," was the muffled reply. "We can upgrade that to 'probably' if I get an icepack, a couple aspirin, and some soda water in the next ten minutes."

"Well, he seems pretty normal to me," said Denmark. "But I could do with some painkillers too. That was…I think it's gotten _stronger_, guys."

"It's definitely bigger than it was the other day," said Norway. "I wonder why it stopped chasing us?"

"Does it really matter right this second?" Sweden groaned. "I can't _think_ like this. Let's just get back to the office."

"Yeah," said Denmark. "I think we've found out all we can for now."

He helped Sweden to his feet and the three of them began making their way back toward their safe room.

Assuming, of course, that it _was_ safe…

To Be Continued…

* * *

><p><em>AN: I hope none of you are taking this too seriously. It's plenty harrowing for the characters, but for the readers I want it to be more funny than suspenseful._


	4. Chapter 3

Denmark rapped on the door to the converted office. "We're back. Is it clear? Can we come in?"

There were brief bustling noises, followed by Iceland's voice. "What's the password?"

"What password? Come on, Iceland, we're really _not_ in the mood for this."

"Aw, you guys are no fun." The door opened and they shuffled inside.

Sweden glanced around the room just long enough to locate the other blue shirt and then let himself fall back into the swivel chair, eyes screwed close while he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Get me some aspirin and one of those cold packs out of the first-aid kit, and don't try to play any stupid games."

There was an awkward pause. "Hello to you too…sweetie," said the owner of the shirt in an annoyed deadpan. It wasn't Iceland.

"_Åland?_" Sweden spluttered, squinting through the headache. "What—when did you get here?"

"While you were exploring, obviously."

"Well, I made an ass of myself just then, didn't I? Sorry about that."

"You weren't to know," said the other man, leaning down to give Sweden a quick peck on the cheek.

"Oh, right. I guess I probably should have mentioned that he was here," said Iceland.

Åland set about getting the requested items. He activated a cold pack and then, while it was chilling, dug out a packet of aspirin and handed it to Sweden along with a small water bottle. "I intended to be part of this from the start, but _someone_—" He aimed a brief glare at Finland, who glared back. "—completely failed to let me know when it was time to leave this morning."

"Well, no point in staying pissed off about it now," said Norway, retrieving two more doses of aspirin and handing one to Denmark. "We have to figure out what to do."

"Iceland's been filling me in on what Greenland told you," said Åland, handing off the cold pack to Sweden. "Did you find any beer bottles to use as weapons while you were looking around?"

"No," said Denmark. "I really looked, too."

"Denmark looked for beer. Huge surprise there," said Sweden, not unkindly. He sat up straight, the pain in his head already fading. "I'm not sure we'll need them, though. The ghost used a door handle. So it must be solid. We could hit it with anything."

"Maybe, maybe not," said Norway. "This _is_ a brewery. It can touch things related to its purpose, right?"

"I think that's what Greenland was getting at," said Denmark. "The jerk took off before we could ask him much."

"Then we might still be in pretty good shape," said Åland. "If the doors in this place are solid to it, everything here might be."

"Hey, Finland," said Norway. "You're the violent maniac around here; what do you think?"

Finland shook his head and made a small gesture with his own liquor bottle (containing god-alone-knew-what, but probably not beer per se).

"He has a point," said Iceland. "It would really suck if we picked up a bunch of stuff _hoping_ it would work and then it turned out not to. We should rely on what we _know_ will work."

"_Do_ we know that beer bottles will work?" said Sweden. "It seemed like even Greenland wasn't sure about that."

"I'm pretty sure they will," said Denmark. "That's the one thing that's _always_ been solid to the ghost, even when it was only _this_ big. We just have to find some."

"Weren't there plenty in the warehouse the first time you guys came here?" said Åland. "I remember Sweden mentioning something about that."

"You're right…God, why didn't I think of that?" Sweden groaned.

"Because you're hung over?" said Iceland.

"I'm not anymore, though." He blinked. "Wow, that stuff kicked in fast."

"Well, it's not like it was a real hangover," said Denmark. "Mine's all cleared up too. But this is great! We know right where to get all the weapons we need!"

"Is it safe to go back there?" said Åland. "The ghost ambushed you last time, didn't it?"

"I don't think it will this time," said Norway. "It didn't chase us very far a little while ago. I think it's focused on protecting the batch of beer it's making."

"Maybe you guys should tell us exactly what happened out there," said Iceland.

They did, recounting the mini-adventure in a handful of sentences.

"Hm, that could be a problem," said Åland. "It sounds like it's picked a very defensible location. We'd have to lure it away both to fight it efficiently and to get at the beer, but it has no reason to move."

"We're spinning our wheels," said Sweden. "Let's be more methodical about this."

"Sweden wants to be more methodical. Huge surprise there," Denmark quipped.

"So what'd you have in mind?" asked Norway.

"A few things. For starters, we need a map."

* * *

><p>A while later, they were ready to set out on their new mission. Missions, in point of fact. Åland's arrival had been fortuitous, allowing them to split into three teams instead of just two—for anyone to wander the brewery alone under these circumstances was out of the question.<p>

Denmark had quickly sketched a couple of maps of the complex from his imperfect memory. Sweden and Åland had the job of exploring all the little side corridors and crawlspaces in order to make the map more complete. In particular, they were looking for alternate routes to the annex where Brynhildr was chugging away.

Iceland and Finland were on armory detail—that is, assembling one. They planned to start by heading into the storage warehouse and collecting as many of the empty bottles as they could carry. While they were at it, they would also keep an eye out for any caches of beer so they could destroy them, and maybe grab other useful things out of the heaps.

That left Denmark and Norway with the best job of all…_if it were Opposite Day_. They were going to revisit the approach to the Beer Ghost's lair in order to test its boundaries and, with any luck, keep it distracted so the other two teams could do their thing without fear. Norway was also hoping they might be able to reason with it. Denmark thought he was out of his mind, and was practically rigid with terror as they all left the safe room. He was determined to do his part, however. They all were.

Like Denmark had said earlier, _beer_ was at stake.

* * *

><p>The grate slid out of the wall easily enough, but it was heavier than they expected and landed with a clatter much louder than either of them would have liked. Sweden and Åland looked up at each other with identical cringing expressions. But nothing unfortunate followed, and after a moment, they went ahead and climbed into the ventilation shaft.<p>

It was the good old-fashioned kind, large enough for comfortable crawling, and even for sitting if you didn't mind hunching over a bit. They hadn't found any alternate path to Brynhildr in the normal hallways, making the ducts the next most promising option. Maybe even more promising, given that all that steam would need outlets.

Sweden took the lead, handling the flashlight awkwardly while he crawled along. Åland had their copy of the map with him, and at every vent they encountered, they peered through to see where they were and he marked their progress. Denmark being an indifferent draftsman, the map wasn't exactly proportionate, so he treated it more like a public transit schematic—what mattered wasn't the exact size and shape of all the features, but how they linked up.

By and by, the air became noticeably warmer and more humid, and picked up a distinct smell of fermenting grain. "We must be getting close," said Sweden.

"Maybe we should stop here," said Åland, pausing. "We don't want to get too close to where the fresh steam gets piped in."

Sweden stopped too and maneuvered around to face his companion. "I don't think fresh steam does get piped in here. This duct system is shared by the whole building. The entire place would be a lot warmer if that amount of steam was getting shunted through directly. There was some leaking over the top of the door the first time we came by, so I think it must get vented off inside the room and have a chance to cool down before it gets sucked in here."

"Should we chance it, though? It's not like we have a lot of room to maneuver in here."

"We need to know whether we can actually get in there from here. We can't assume anything about this place."

Åland sighed. "All right, sweetie. But promise me that if it keeps getting hotter, we'll turn around. I like your face the way it is and I'd be really pissed off if it got cooked."

"You'd better be careful with talk like that or we might have to turn around right now," Sweden quipped. "It's a deal."

They continued, and before long came to a corner. After they turned it, the heat rose a notch and they began encountering clouds of vapor. It was about on the level of a busy kitchen—uncomfortable but (hopefully) not dangerous. The flashlight beam brushed over a vent up ahead, and Åland reached up to lower Sweden's hand, saying "Careful. If the ghost is in there, we don't want to give ourselves away."

"Right," said Sweden. "Good thinking."

The grate was wide enough for them to crouch side-by-side and look through. The space beyond was dimly lit by fires in the hotboxes for the machinery, and once their eyes had adjusted, they could appreciate how extensive it all was. From their vantage point high in one wall they could see almost the entire contraption at once. The fermenter was indeed big enough to be someone's house, if someone didn't mind living in a brass tank that smelled of unfinished beer. It squatted monolithically among the rest of the antique apparatus like a temple dedicated to a rowdy, Friday-night sort of god. How very…Denmark.

And then Sweden noticed the Beer Ghost, shuffling amid the pipes and vats, almost all the way on the other side of the room from them. He more felt than heard Åland's sharp intake of breath as he spotted it too. They couldn't tell what it was doing—inspecting something, adjusting something. It didn't matter.

"You weren't kidding when you said it had grown," Åland whispered tensely. "How are we supposed to beat that thing?"

"We'll figure something out," Sweden assured him. "Greenland said it's gotten this strong from drinking lots of beer, so we should find an anti-beer to weaken it."

"An anti-beer," Åland repeated flatly.

"That's what the island said."

Down in the room, the door suddenly rattled. The Beer Ghost turned around—which was a sight in itself, because it didn't pivot like something normal. Instead, its whole face sort of _glooped_ through to the other side. The rattling continued, and the ghost began making its way toward the door.

"That'll be Norway and Denmark," Sweden said.

"Good timing on their part."

The ghost reached the door and started opening it, and they heard running footsteps and one of Denmark's rabbitlike little cries of fear. "Quick," said Sweden, fiddling with the edges of the grate. "As long as it's gone, let's see if we can loosen this thing so we can just push it out quickly when we all come back."

They knew from removing the other grate that it would be secured with screws put in from the outside, but also that in a facility as old as this, "secured" was a relative term. After jiggling it for a few minutes, they were hopeful that it might come free with one hard kick.

Hope would have to be enough, because the ghost was coming back. They hurriedly flung themselves to either side of the grate, just to make sure it didn't catch a glimpse of them. "That didn't take long," Åland muttered. "Did it stop chasing you that quickly last time?"

"I don't think so," said Sweden. "Could be bad if it's getting more focused."

"You think that means the beer is almost ready?"

"Maybe. I know I usually check on dinner more often as it gets closer to being done."

Åland nodded. "We'd better head back."

* * *

><p>Finland and Iceland had not, of course, been with the Scandinavians on their previous visit to the storage warehouse, but they could easily imagine how bad it would be based on Denmark's account. Once they pried the pipe out from under the door and got it open…they discovered that it was worse than that. The puddles of sour beer had partially evaporated, leaving a rancid sludge that sucked at their shoes. Patches of mold had spread over some of it, which did not help the smell one bit, and a few of the stacks of stuff had collapsed in the meantime, making everything that much messier.<p>

Iceland pulled a face. "I think I might be sick," he muttered.

Finland shot him a look that was as good as saying "Hold it together, man," and began poking around one of the piles. He found a couple of empty burlap sacks and tossed one at the other country, then started loading his own with the empty bottles that were everywhere.

"Oh, hey, score!" said Iceland. "I was thinking we'd just carry armloads."

Now the look said "That's why _I'm_ the brains of this operation."

They began picking their way through the chaos, collecting as they went. Both intact bottles and broken ones went into the bags: clubs _and_ knives, as it were. Despite the overall nasty condition of the floor, it was a straightforward task…right up until they turned a corner and saw the ephemeral, glowing orb drifting among the heaps.

"Holy crap!" Iceland exclaimed. "_Another_ ghost?"

Finland furrowed his brow and began following the wispy light as it floated away. Iceland fell into step behind him. They lost sight of it when it glided _through_ some of the stacked junk, but after rounding a few more turns they either found it again, or found something so much more interesting and important that it didn't matter.

It was an entire _herd_ of ghosts. They sat shoulder to shoulder—or whatever ghosts have instead of shoulders—in an area of cleared floor, surrounded by something like a cross between a bank of mist and a low chain-link fence. Not one was any larger than, say, a collie, but beyond that they had little in common. Some were stretched thin, others short and squat, and they came in every shade of pale. They milled about, making typical ghost moans in a variety of volumes and pitches, like the demonstration of the theater's sound equipment at the start of a movie.

"Shit, this is bad," said Iceland, leaning on the ghost fence. "Don't you get it, Finland? These are _baby Beer Ghosts_! It already bred!" He met the other country's eyes. "We're too late!"

To Be Continued…

_A/N: Sorry this took so long. I've entered the state I usually wind up in with my chapter fics, where I know exactly where I want it to go, and some of what should happen along the way, but I have to figure out how to arrange it all and then how to get from each point to the next. I actually wound up deleting about a page more of text and moving it to the next chapter because this one was getting unnecessarily long and I felt like I owed you guys an update._


	5. Chapter 4

_Too late…_ In times like these, despair would be a welcome lift of mood.

Finland paced. Periodically, he took a pull from his bottle, but not a deep one—with what they had just discovered, liquor might soon be in short supply and he would have to ration his stock. That thought made him hiss a very sincere "_Perkele…_"

Iceland had turned around and sagged to the warehouse floor, resting his head in his hands. "Oh, man…oh, _man_…this is the worst thing ever! What are we gonna tell the other guys? Wait a minute…you're not going to tell them _anything,_ are you? _I'm_ going to have to tell them!" He began rapping his knuckles against his temples, trying to stir up any thought that would save the day. "Okay, maybe…there might be some hope left. Obviously, the Beer Ghost army is still here. It's not invading the world just yet. That's something. Come on, Finland, help me out here! I need some flash of inspiration that will mean we're not doomed!"

Finland stopped pacing and watched a wisp of light approach from elsewhere in the warehouse, float over the enclosure, and suddenly drop down to the floor. With a _pop_, it took the form of a small ghost. Another sank through the roof of the building and suddenly plunged into the corral. _Pop_. The space within the barrier was getting more crowded by the minute as smaller ghosts arrived from outside in ones and two and were drawn to the herd—and perhaps more importantly, not _leaving_. The travel was one-way. Something about that made Finland think they weren't really the Beer Ghost's offspring. No, they were more probably _captives_.

He nudged Iceland and tried to convey his thoughts with a few pointed fingers and sweeping gestures, but the only response was blank puzzlement. The two of them just didn't interact often enough for Iceland to decipher Finland's more complex communications. Finland snorted. He _really_ didn't want to resort to talking…maybe there was something around that he could write on… While looking for such a thing, he passed his gaze over the corral again, and a fortuitous gap in the shuffling spirits revealed yet another wrinkle in the situation.

Amid the sea of wan hues was something pitch black with glowing red eyes. Finland yanked Iceland roughly to his feet and pointed hard at it.

"Hey, that looks like Sauma!"

The demon perked up, hearing its name, and with a cacophonous whine began shoving its way through the other spirits toward Iceland.

"It _is_ Sauma! What are you doing here? I told you to go home!"

Sauma leaped up against the fence and made an affectionate attempt to rip out Iceland's jugular vein.

"I can't play now, Sauma. I have an important job to do. How long have you been in this ghost nursery?"

At that point, Finland's day got a whole lot worse. Battling a powerful ghost was not his idea of a good time, even if it had to be done for the sake of the world's beer. Having his obnoxious cousin along just put a further damper on things, which was why he had left home without Åland to begin with. The prospect of the Beer Ghost _winning_ had certainly been a downer, even if he was no longer convinced it was the case. And now Finland had to listen to demon speech, which was never intended for mortals to hear, and he felt like his ears might just hop down off his head and run screaming out of the warehouse.

Just so you know, it sounds like a recording of fingernails on a chalkboard, slowed down by a factor of about three and with the reverb set on High. Also, someone is torturing a sheep in the background. And it doesn't actually _mean_ anything. When demons "talk," the meaning comes from somewhere else. (It's probably best not to think about it too hard.)

But Iceland could understand it, thanks to long acclimation. He listened intently while his pet slavered and wailed. When the brain-twisting noise coasted to a stop, he turned to Finland and said, "He says he started to go home, but something compelled him to stop and come back here, and now that he's here he can't leave. It's the same for all these little ghosts…you know what? I think this enclosure attracts and traps wandering spirits." Iceland gasped suddenly. "So that means they're not baby Beer Ghosts after all. But maybe they _will_ be! Do you get it, Finland? Greenland was wrong—the Beer Ghost isn't going to _drink_ the 'special brew,' it's going to feed it to all these spirits and turn them _into_ more Beer Ghosts!" He paused. "That's so evil! Sauma doesn't even _like_ beer that much! He's more of a molten sulfur guy! We have to free all these little guys!"

Finland took a long hard look at the little ghosts, then met Iceland's eyes and shook his head emphatically.

"Why not? The more wrenches we can throw into the Beer Ghost's plans, the better. And it's just the right thing to do. I mean, how would you like it if a much more powerful entity took you prisoner and tried to turn you into a copy of itself?"

No one ever said Iceland was tactful.

Finland's glare could have peeled paint. He pulled one of the empty bottles out of his sack and shattered it against the ghost fence. That was the extent of the threat, but the message was clear.

"Oh," Iceland said slowly. "I think I may have forgotten who I was talking to for a second. Sorry. But you see where I'm coming from, right? We can't leave them in thrall to that horrible monster!"

Finland raised a finger and tapped his temple. _Think about what you just said,_ the gesture advised.

Iceland took a moment to puzzle it out. "Oh," he said. "I get it. We _can't_ free them…we don't have anything that can break through that fence. You smashed that bottle on it and it didn't even dent it."

Finland rolled his eyes. What he had _meant_ was that the swarm might already be under the Beer Ghost's control, in which case setting them free would only multiply the trouble. But as long as Iceland was on the right page with regard to their course of action, his reasoning didn't really matter. Finland slung the bag over his shoulder and motioned for Iceland to follow as he headed for the exit of the warehouse.

"Don't worry, Sauma," Iceland said. "I'll come back for you. Be good, okay? Don't devour the essence of any of these ghosts."

After they had gone, the spot where Finland had shattered the bottle wavered slightly, and a few wisps of spirit vapor leaked off.

* * *

><p>"Norway…I won't lie to you. You're my favorite country in the whole world. But you. Are. <em>Insane<em>. What are you trying to prove? It doesn't _want_ to talk! It wants to…to eat us or something!"

"We don't know that yet. It _might_ be willing to talk. We won't know unless we can face it without losing our nerve. I want to give it one more try."

"No! I forbid it! _Norway!_" Denmark grabbed the back of Norway's sweater and dug in his heels, but he didn't stand a chance in hell of slowing down someone who weighed half again as much as he did. All he achieved was skidding along the floor. "Noorrrwaaaayyyyy!" he whined. "The others are probably back at the base and waiting for us by now! As your sovereign nation, I command you to stop!"

"Wrong century, Denmark." He stopped anyway, but not because he was being commanded. "I don't blame you for not wanting to go through this again, so…if you want to go back now, go ahead. I won't be angry. But I'm going to take one more shot at this."

"I can't do that! Do you have any idea how guilty I'd feel if I left you to face that thing alone and you got eaten without me?"

Norway sighed. It was moments like these that reminded him why he continually forgave Denmark his many annoying faults. "We'll make it quick, then."

Once again, they were at the final approach to the Beer Ghost's steam-driven factory floor. They met each other's eyes, nodded once, swallowed hard, and continued. Norway took the lead, with Denmark following at an awkward distance, torn between his mortal dread of the ghost and his loyalty to his friend.

It was about the fourth or fifth time they had done just this, which added an ironic element of tedium to the whole thing. But when they reached the far end of the hallway, instead of suddenly panicking and darting away, or rattling the doorknob in order to grab the Beer Ghost's attention and keep it busy defending its operation, Norway raised a trembling fist and politely knocked.

After a moment came the now-familiar chill seeping through the door and the vague shuffling sound that indicated the approach of the ghost. Denmark bit his lip and tried to make himself tiny and invisible behind Norway. There was a moment of absolute stillness, and then the door swung open and Norway found himself staring up at their foe as though he had come to borrow a cup of sugar for baking. Really alarming sugar. He wasn't used to looking _up_ at anyone. "Um…" he mumbled.

The Beer Ghost narrowed its gigantic eyes. "**GO AWAY. I'M BUSY,**" it said.

"Yeah…about that," said Norway. "Is all this…really…necessary? I mean, is there any chance we can convince you _not_ to create a whole bunch more Beer Ghosts? Just out of curiosity."

The ghost appeared to think about it for a split second. "**NO,**" it replied.

"You'd better reconsider!" Denmark piped up from his unconventional hiding place. "Otherwise, you'll have _us_ as enemies, and you don't want that! We are infamous, fearsome warriors! Ask anyone!"

The ghost rolled its eyes, giving the impression of a pair of shot-puts swirling around inside two jumbo mixing bowls, and began to turn away from them…but then reversed at the speed of a whipcrack, got _right_ in their faces, and said "**BUUH!**"

Norway screamed. Denmark screamed and kept _on_ screaming, even after the moment had passed and the ghost had slipped back into the annex, chuckling darkly to itself. Norway waited until the noise had subsided into childish whimpers (and he had gotten his own shaking under control) before speaking again.

"Okay…so…I guess that answers that question."

"Are you _happy_? I swear I almost had a heart attack just then!" They started walking. "God, I need a drink. Before we go back, let's look for some beer. There must be a few cases left around here somewhere."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Denmark. I could use one too, but Greenland said we probably shouldn't."

"_Pfft._ What does Greenland know?"

"He knew this would happen. But even if he hadn't mentioned it, I just don't think it would be wise to drink beer before fighting a ghost with beer-related powers. Think about those godawful fake hangovers it hit us with, and so far we've been stone-cold sober."

Denmark made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a hum. "I guess you're right. But my nerves are shot to hell. I need _something_ to settle them… Do you think whatever Finland's got in that bottle of his counts as beer?"

"I'm not sure I want to know." Finland drank a lot of beer, almost as much as Denmark, and made up the difference with vodka and similar. But that was only the start. His sister had her own still and no standards whatsoever about what went into it. Holidays at their place were exciting adventures in toxicology. "But either way, we probably shouldn't drink it. And not just because of the ghost."

Denmark made a theatrical groan and slumped against a nearby wall.

"Come on, pull yourself together," said Norway. "We'll never get through this if you're not in fighting form. And if we don't win here today, it may never be safe to drink beer again! Think about that!"

"I know," Denmark said to the wall. He sounded pretty miserable, and when Norway laid a hand on his shoulder as an intended gesture of fraternity, he found that Denmark was still shaking.

"Hey," he said gently. "It'll be okay. I got your back. You got mine, right?"

Denmark looked up, nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, that's right. We can do this. We can forgo beer now for the sake of everyone's beer later! A sacrifice for the greater good! Let's go, Norway! We've got a plan of attack to develop!"

Re-energized, he took off running down the hall.

_Mood swing accomplished,_ Norway thought, following.

* * *

><p>You could have cut the tension with a knife, if anyone had wanted to risk taking it away from Finland in order to try. Sweden and Åland tried to distract themselves by making a diagram of Brynhildr's layout within the annex and debating the best way to shut it down without killing everyone in the process. Iceland and Finland were both pacing, impatient for the group to be reassembled so they could share their discovery. Occasionally they came within a hair's breadth of colliding with each other in their preoccupation.<p>

No one said what they were all thinking: _What if they've been attacked?_ You can only poke a bear so many times before it rips your head off, and at the last check, the Beer Ghost had been considerably larger than a bear.

A fierce hammering at the door made them all jump. "Open up!" Denmark's voice commanded. He sounded pissed. Iceland hurried to move the desk and unlock the door, and then to get out of the way as it was flung open.

"All right, listen up!" said Denmark, sweeping into the room. "You know why we are all here! We are here to kick ass and drink beer…and we are all out of beer! Which is why we need to kick ass in the first place!"

"Just roll with it; he's been like this since we started back," said Norway, coming in right behind the other.

"Good to see you," said Sweden. "We'd gotten a little worried."

"It was pretty hairy for a second, but I think we're good," said Norway. "The Beer Ghost definitely wants a fight, though."

"And we'll give it one!" Denmark crowed, leaping onto the swivel chair. His angle was bad, and it scooted out from under him and sent him crashing back-first to the floor. "Ow…"

"I've been getting an idea of how we should go about it," said Sweden. "But I'll hold off until we know what Finland and Iceland found. Guys?"

"Right," said Iceland. "This probably won't change much about our plan, but it says a lot about what we're up against…"

To Be Continued…

_A/N: I must apologize again for the delay between chapters. I've been in and out of town and haven't been able to write as much as I'd like. Plus I have other creative projects going on (including another, super-special SatW fic, so stay tuned!)._


	6. Chapter 5

They listened patiently to Iceland's description of the ghost paddock in the warehouse.

"Hm," said Sweden. "Knowing this, I don't think we need to change our strategy…but we do need to get a move on. Come on, everyone. I'll explain my plan on the way. Åland, grab the first-aid kit. Everyone else, take some bottles."

"But what if we don't _like_ your plan?" asked Denmark as they filed out of the office.

"Then we can discuss it on the way also. Every minute we're not defeating the Beer Ghost is a minute more spirits are being attracted to that weird enclosure. This just clinches that we don't know how much time we have and we'd better not waste any."

"So what _is_ the plan?" said Iceland.

"Åland and I found a perfect back way into the annex through the ducts. We'll need Norway and Denmark to distract it one more time while the rest of us head in."

"What? Why us?" Denmark protested.

"Because it's used to seeing you two by now. If anyone else did it, it might get suspicious. Anyway, once the four of us are inside, we'll target the main fermenting vat. The ghost will come back in to stop us, you two can get inside, and then it will just be a matter of taking turns attacking the vat until we break the machinery. There's no way the ghost can hold off all six of us at once."

"You want to _break_ Brynhildr? Sweden, your plan sucks," said Denmark.

"Well, do you have a better one?"

"Yeah…_don't_ break my unique museum piece!"

"Do you have a better plan that will _work_? We need a fast, permanent solution."

Denmark sighed heavily. "I guess not. Just…go easy on her, okay? As easy as possible, I mean. Don't do anything I can't fix later."

"I don't think we can promise anything like that, Denmark," said Åland. "We'll do what we have to."

"Well…just do the best you can! Man, this is going to _suck_…"

They reached the entry point into the duct system. Åland opened up the first-aid kit and divided the remaining painkillers among the six of them. "In case the ghost tries that 'hangover scream' again," he explained. "If you get hit, find a safe nook and take some. That should clear it up."

"We should all take one dose now as a preventative," said Iceland. "If something drastic happens, it can make the difference between being in pain and being in too much pain to function. Trust me on this one."

As this was coming from a guy who jumped out of airplanes as a hobby, they all swallowed some pills.

"Hang on, I have an idea," said Denmark. "Norway, go with them. I'll deal with the ghost on my own."

Norway gasped. "Are you _sure_?"

"This isn't some scheme to protect Brynhildr, is it?" said Sweden skeptically.

"No. On my honor, it's not. I think I can hold its attention longer if I'm alone."

"And you're _sure_ you want to do it that way?" Norway said, still astounded.

"No," said Denmark. "That's why we'd better go ahead with it before I change my mind!"

"I'll give you credit for bravery, if nothing else," said Sweden. "All the same, don't rush into it. I'll send you a text when we get into position. Don't go any farther than the near end of that last hallway until you get it."

"Right," said Denmark. He opened his bag of longnecks and began stuffing them in his pockets, his waistband, his _shirt_…anywhere they would fit. In order to make room for one more, he pulled out his handkerchief and tied it around his head, so that he looked vaguely like a commando who had forgotten his ammo belts. And used very unorthodox ammo. His dead serious expression only underscored the absurdity.

"All right, then," said Sweden, absolutely deadpan. "See you in a little while. Good luck."

"Same to you guys," Denmark said. Standing as tall as he could, he turned about and marched off with an air of resolve.

Only once he was out of sight did the others allow the laughter out. They snickered for a good minute and a half.

Iceland sighed with subsiding mirth. "He's going to get creamed, isn't he?"

"Yeah, probably," Norway said soberly. "Åland, I hope that kit has more than just aspirin in it."

"Well, the sooner we get moving, the sooner Denmark can get his little solo adventure over with," said Sweden. "Follow me."

One at a time, the five of them clambered into the duct.

* * *

><p>Denmark was glad he had hung onto the sack he got the bottles from, because he had already had to be sick into it once, from nerves. <em>What the hell was I <em>thinking_?_ he wondered over and over. He had felt so clear-headed at the time, and the plan seemed so logical—instead of boring the ghost with yet another visit from himself and Norway, he would face it alone and the change in the arrangement would grab its notice. He was no longer certain of the logic, and the true terror of the proposal had set in…but he still had to do it. He was all by himself and the dozen or so bottles he had stuffed in his clothes were hardly comfortable and he missed Norway already and he thought the batteries in his flashlight might be running low and he hadn't gotten Sweden's text message yet _and he still had to do it_. He felt like the sack might yet see further use.

He paused in the vehicle service bay, leaning against a tool cabinet in order to gather his strength and maybe give his stomach a chance to stop clenching.

He really, _really_ could have done with a beer about now.

_And he couldn't have one_.

There it was. _There_ was the feeling he needed. That damn ghost was going _down_!

His phone chimed. It was the text from Sweden, consisting of one word: "go". Denmark squared his shoulders, readjusted his bottles, and marched off to meet his enemy.

Abandoning all subtlety, he pounded on the door to the annex, rattled the handle, and made a general ruckus. "Hey! Deadhead! Open up! I'm talking to _you_ in there! Mr. Cuddly Mountain Monkey has left the building and you get to deal with _me_ now! On _my_ terms! And let me tell…you…" he went on, faltering only slightly as the door opened and the Beer Ghost glowered down at him with an expression of utter disdain. "…something, Creepy! I haven't had a beer _all day _because of you! I am pissed off like you wouldn't believe! So let's have it out, right here and now, you and me!" He began backing away, not in retreat but to choose his position. "You make a lot of noise, but I bet you're good for nothing in a real fight!"

And then, just as the ghost was starting to look fed up and about to turn around and head back into the annex, Denmark drew one of his bottles and hurled it. He watched with immense satisfaction, bordering on glee, as it sailed end-over-end, hit the ghost square between the eyes, and rebounded with a lovely _clonk_ sound.

"_Ha!_" he crowed. "That was excellent! That was _perfect_! You should see the look on your face right now, Deadhead!"

The Beer Ghost narrowed its eyes and began to lurch forward, opening its mouth in preparation to deliver a hangover scream. Denmark retreated a few meters, then pulled out another bottle and threw it overhand, scoring a beautiful hit—the missile lodged right in the ghost's mouth. He whooped in victory.

Now the ghost was so angry that it was actually turning red—a neat trick for something with no blood to blush with. It spat out the bottle, which ricocheted about the corridor like a pinball marble, and charged with a speed Denmark had never imagined it might possess. He squealed and started to flee, but stopped before he got far. He couldn't be sure that rage would be enough to keep it chasing him beyond the hallway. He needed to keep it _busy_ long enough for the others to get into the annex and start shutting down Brynhildr. And he needed to keep yelling and making noise to cover up _their_ noise, at least for a little while. He dropped the flashlight—the ghost's luminescence was enough to see by—drew _two_ bottles, and met the charge.

It went better than he expected. Although the ghost was faster than it had any right to be at that size, it still wasn't too maneuverable. It could change its facing simply by moving its features to whichever side it wished (which was _disgusting_), but that didn't do a thing for its momentum. Denmark was a lot nimbler than his enemy, and his blows landed more often than not.

They just didn't _do_ much except annoy the Beer Ghost. It was like trying to beat up an overstuffed sofa with…well, with empty beer bottles. There was lots of springy rebounding, and not much in the way of damage. And could the ghost even _feel_ pain? That was probably important to know.

Before Denmark could wonder about it much, there came the clanging sounds of sabotage from inside the annex. It was almost shocking how quickly the ghost put two and two together. He had thought it was angry _before_…but he hardly had time to take in the change in its mood before it extended two amorphous appendages, swept him up against the wall, and then _spat_ on him, a huge glob of something horrible. Denmark found himself glued in place, unable to move. A few more spits, and he was cocooned.

With a roar of fury, the Beer Ghost barreled back toward the annex.

* * *

><p>It was a long way to the floor. The ventilation grate was set high in the wall of the annex, which was of course large enough to hold a fermenting vat the size of a small house. The saboteurs shoved the grate out and found themselves looking down as if from a second-story window. All of the equipment was kept well away from the walls, so there was nothing within reach they could use to climb down or even jump down onto. Sweden and Åland had already known this, but it was a lot more daunting when they actually had to figure out a safe way down than when they were just enjoying the view.<p>

"Don't worry; I got this," said Iceland. He moved to the edge of the duct opening, performed a few joint-loosening wriggles, and jumped. Or rather leaped, clearing the horizontal distance between the duct and the nearest part of the apparatus. He grabbed onto a length of pipe running between two vats, swung and twisted to propel himself toward one of the vats, kicked off the side, somersaulted, and landed in a graceful crouch. In the next instant, his sparkles caught up with him, and he rose to his full height with a head toss that sent them dancing and twinkling.

"Show-off," Norway muttered.

Iceland found a ladder for the rest of them, and they climbed down and began making their way toward the fermenter. As big as it was, it couldn't be missed from anywhere in the warehouse, but the rest of the equipment was like a maze surrounding it.

From the hallway outside they could hear the muted sounds of Denmark taunting the Beer Ghost while he skirmished with it. "I hope Denmark's doing okay," said Norway. "Maybe I shouldn't have let him go alone."

"It sounds like he knows what he's doing," said Sweden. "I admit I'm impressed."

After a minute or two, they reached a dead end and had to backtrack. "How did Denmark ever intend to get anything done with all this?" Sweden wondered. "It would take a supergenius just to remember their way around the machinery."

"It's probably easier when the lights are on," said Norway.

Åland consulted their diagram sketch. "I think we can get it to it through here. We might need to climb over some pipes."

After a few false turns, they found it. It loomed before them like a veritable hill of brass, pitted and tarnished with age and slightly warm to the touch.

"This is never going to work," said Iceland. "That metal must be as thick as a phone book."

Finland shook his head. Hefting a sturdy pipe wrench, he began hammering away at a riveted seam in the tank, lumberjack style.

"I hate to say it, but he's right," said Åland. "Concentrate on the seams, see if we can loosen the rivets and get them to pop out under the pressure."

"And if it starts to work, _get the hell out of the way,_" said Sweden.

"How much beer do you think is in there?" asked Norway.

"A lot," said Sweden simply. "We can all swim, right?"

The vat surely had more than one seam—no metal shop in the world back when Brynhildr had been built could have handled a single sheet of brass that large—but only the one was accessible. With Finland and Åland both hacking at it, there was no room for the others to join in. Norway found a stepladder and started attacking the seam higher up. Iceland _le parkour_ed his way to the top of the fermenter to act as lookout. Sweden went to scout the area immediately around the giant tank, making mental notes of any potential escape routes should anything go wrong.

"Incoming!" Iceland shouted after a little while. "It looks pissed as hell! It's really moving—_holy crap_!"

"What's it doing?" said Norway.

Iceland balked. "No time to describe it. It's almost here! Scatter!"

"What about Denmark?" Norway asked, but Iceland was already scampering away over the "rooftops" of Brynhildr.

"Come on, guys," he said, hopping down from the stepladder and tugging gently at Åland's arm. "Looks like we're in Phase Two now!"

Just then, the Beer Ghost appeared atop the fermenter. Its face was so contorted with fury that it hardly seemed like the same ghost anymore. "**NO!**" it bellowed. "**DON'T TOUCH!**"

"Jeez!" Åland gasped, scooting away backward in alarm. It wasn't often that anything alarmed him. Finland shot him an indecipherable look and, instead of retreating, held his ground as the ghost dove over the edge of the vat. He drew his knife.

"Finland, that won't work! Use—" said Norway, but it all happened too fast. The ghost dropped within range, Finland literally took a stab at attacking it, and both the knife and his arm passed through it without effect. Then his whole body passed through it as it landed on him.

No one knows what it's like to be _inside_ a ghost, because a) it doesn't happen often and b) everyone it happens to blocks out the memory immediately afterward, before they get a chance to explain it to anyone else. Evidently it's that bad. Finland collapsed pretty much instantly, and the Beer Ghost didn't even notice him, moving on to target the others.

Åland held out a hand to Norway. "Bottle!" He took the one offered and spun around a full 360 degrees, using the motion to break it against the hopper array behind him and then slash at the ghost as it came within reach. It worked like a dream; the jagged glass left visible marks like a fork scraping along the side of a molded gelatin, and the Beer Ghost howled in pain and rage and veered off, vanishing somewhere in the tangle of surrounding machinery. "Sweden! Sweetie!" Åland called out. "It might be coming your way! Try to stay out of sight!"

"We should have you around more often," Norway babbled.

"Here," said Åland, handing him the broken bottle. "You go find Sweden, the ghost, or both. I'll deal with things here." Norway nodded and hurried off.

Åland went to check on his cousin. Finland was folded up in something close to the fetal position, chalk-white and trembling violently. Åland lifted him to his feet, steadied him against the side of the vat, and slapped his face so hard that it made his hand sting. Finland revived at once, bounding fully upright and swearing profusely while waving his knife.

"Relax, it's just me!" said Åland. Finland paused, took a good look at the other, and then resumed waving the knife. "Knock it off," said Åland. "Let's get in some more hits on this thing while the ghost is distracted." They picked up their bashing tools and continued clobbering the seam.

Norway, meanwhile, was cautiously searching, holding the broken bottle in front of him more like a protective amulet than a readied weapon. Every draft made him tense up, and when something grabbed his other arm from behind, he almost passed out from shock before it spun him around and turned out to be Sweden.

"Don't _do_ that!" he said.

"Sorry," said Sweden. "Any idea where Iceland went?"

"No. I'm still wondering what happened to Denmark."

"He probably chickened out and is halfway home by now."

"That's a horrible thing to say!"

"You know him as well as I do. Better, if anything."

"Well, if he did, maybe he's smarter than we are," said Norway, his eyes darting around nervously. "That thing isn't playing around anymore. It—"

"_Right there!_" Sweden screamed, pointing to where the Beer Ghost was lunging out from between two vats, pseudopodia extended like something from an anime video left in the Kids' section of the rental store by mistake. Norway whirled around, flailing wildly with the broken bottle, and it was by sheer accident that he landed a few hits and sent the ghost off wailing again.

"I see what you mean," said Sweden. He raised his voice. "Iceland! Where are you?"

Iceland's voice came from some distance away. "Over here! What do you need?"

"Can you see the ghost from where you are?"

"Uuuhhhhhhh…no!"

"Dammit," Sweden muttered.

"What about Denmark?" said Norway. "Any sign of him?"

"Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhh…no, sorry!"

"I'm going to go look for him," said Norway, heading off in what was probably the direction of the door.

"Norway!" Sweden protested. "I told you, he probably ran away!"

"What if he didn't? He might need help! The rest of you can keep going with the plan."

Sweden would have loved to continue arguing, but he knew it wouldn't accomplish anything. Besides, the noises from the direction of the fermenter were indicating that the ghost had returned and Finland and Åland were leading it away, as per the agreed-upon strategy. With a sigh, Sweden found his way back to the huge vat and started looking for something to hit it with. The other two seemed to have taken their implements with them.

A splintering pain lanced through his head as something struck him. Clapping a hand to his temple, he looked around and spotted a brass rivet gradually spinning to a stop on the floor. He turned his gaze to the battered seam just in time to see another one shoot out of the sheet metal with a _ping_. Half-finished beer was already leaking out of the holes.

"Guys!" he said, starting to move away. "I think we did it!" _Ping, ping!_ went two more rivets, one of them striking a pipe with such force that a fine jet of steam began seeping from a new crack. The machinery started groaning, and somewhere in the maze, the Beer Ghost groaned in sympathy.

Exquisitely slowly at first, but with rapidly increasing speed, hell broke loose. Probably one of the Buddhist Hells. Most other religions that include the concept of Hell aren't nearly as creative with the torments.

To Be Continued…

_A/N: This chapter is the longest so far, and to be honest it got a little more intense than I had originally intended. Ain't that always the way with fanfiction? You start out planning to write something fluffy and silly and perfectly in accordance with the fluffy and silly source material, and then Drama takes over and you wind up with all this suspenseful action and character angst. I would say we're currently at the peak of intensity, except that we might not be. Stay tuned!_


	7. Chapter 6

Norway found the exit door easily enough. His long history as both a woodsman and a sailor had given him a sixth sense for navigation. He slipped into the hallway, which was dark except for a harsh circle of light thrown on the wall where Denmark had dropped his flashlight.

As he went to get it, he thought he heard a noise, but it was so hard to tell with the multilayered clamor going on in the annex. He picked up the light and pulled the other door open just enough to poke his head through. "Denmark? Are you out here?"

Now he was certain he heard a noise. It sounded like "mmph." Norway turned, sweeping the flashlight from side to side, and discovered a large dark brown mass stuck to one wall. He had walked right by it without noticing. And it was going "mmph."

"Mmph-mmph! Mmph-mmph mmph!"

"_Denmark!_" Norway exclaimed, hurrying to his friend's…rescue? Yeah, probably. Rescue. He was almost completely encased in whatever it was. Only his eyes and nose were left uncovered, which meant that a) at least he was in no danger of suffocating, and b) he was able to give Norway the most helpless, pathetic, pleading look he'd given him in nearly a week.

"Are you okay?" said Norway.

"Mmph mmph," Denmark mmphed. "Mmph-mmph! Mmph mmph mmph-mmph mmph!"

"What is this stuff, anyway?" Norway said, tentatively prodding the substance. It was a semi-glutinous paste about as dense as cream cheese, and something about the smell was slightly reminiscent of bread dough. It didn't burn Norway's skin or start crawling up his arm or anything, so he scraped it away from Denmark's mouth. It took a certain amount of effort.

"Oh, thank _god_, Norway," Denmark wailed, spitting out bits of the glop. "That stuff tastes like sucking on bouillon cubes!"

"What is it? That jelly stuff from ghosts? Ectoplasm?"

"How the hell should I know? It's nasty, is what it is. The ghost spit it up all over me. You gotta get it off me, Norway, this is freaking me out!" He squirmed in his goopy prison, edging toward hyperventilation.

"Don't panic. I'm going as fast as I can. This stuff clings."

The cacophony in the annex stepped up a few notches, with the bang and hiss of bursting steam pipes and a whole lot of shouting. Then came a scream of tearing metal, followed by the unmistakable rushing, sloshing sound of a vast quantity of liquid suddenly pouring free from its container.

"Norway!" Denmark shrieked. "_Go faster!_"

A moment later, the beer arrived in a foaming amber cascade. Funneling through the narrow doorway gave it extra force, and it flung the door open as wide as it would go and still had enough momentum left to bowl Norway over and drag him a few meters, and then slam the other door shut. Norway fought his way back to his feet against the current. He tried to reopen the door, but the pressure was too great, so he flattened against one of the side walls until the torrent subsided.

Leveled out, the beer came up to about Norway's waist—easy enough to wade through, if not very quickly. Denmark had been fastened to the wall somewhat above his actual height, so it would be about the same on him. Norway had lost track of him in the process of being washed down the hallway, and had also lost track of the flashlight, which had certainly been ruined by the liquid. No light was coming in from the annex either, the hotboxes having been doused by the flood. "Well, that could have been a lot worse. You okay?" he called out, not only to check on Denmark but to locate him.

"I've been better!" Denmark replied, sounding rattled. "I guess I can't complain too much, except…um, Norway?"

"What is it?" said Norway, slogging over to him.

"Um, I'm not sure it's not going to _be_ a whole lot worse. I think the beer is still rising!"

Norway wondered how in the hell Denmark could tell that, cocooned as he was and with hardly a shred of light to see by…but when he stood still for a moment, it seemed to him too that the beer was creeping up. Maybe that was Denmark's sixth sense in action. Some people have it for navigation, others might have it for beer.

"I think you're right," said Norway, resuming the process of prying away the brown gunk. "That big tank must still be draining."

"_Can I panic now?_" Denmark asked.

"No! Everything's going to be fine."

Light flashed into the hallway. "Norway?" It was Sweden, trudging through the beer lake with his waterproof penlight. The others were more-or-less with him, trailing at various distances. "What is _that_?" he demanded.

"Ghost spit," Denmark said in all seriousness. "Hurry up and get me out of it! The beer is rising!"

"Honestly, Denmark, the things you get into…"

"What happened to the Beer Ghost?" asked Norway.

"No idea," said Iceland. "We haven't seen it since the fermenter broke open. I bet it's mad as hell, though."

"We need to get out of here," said Åland. "The door at the other end opens inward, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," said Norway. "I couldn't get it open before because of the pressure."

"If you can open it, that would be really, really great," said Denmark.

"I'll probably need some help," Åland said with a pointed look at Finland and Iceland. The three of them headed for the other end of the corridor, half wading and half swimming, while Sweden joined Norway at his task and the beer continuously nudged upward and Denmark grew more agitated by the second.

"On the bright side," said Sweden after a moment. "the beer is softening—" He broke off, sniffing. "Wait a minute…" He got a dab of the brown stuff on his finger and gingerly tasted it. "It's Marmite," he reported.

"You've had it before?" said Denmark, incredulous.

"England talked me into trying it when he had me over for tea once. You have my sincere pity, Denmark."

"What kind of supernatural power is spitting Marmite?" said Norway.

"A beer-related one, obviously," said Sweden.

"Well…we'll see who has the power when I _ban_ this crap!" Denmark said. "Ha! Now the ghost is breaking the law and—" There was a whine of collapsing metal and a hiss of steam from inside the annex, and the beer started rising faster. Tirade forgotten, Denmark made a noise that wasn't exactly a scream and redoubled his squirming. One of his arms finally came free and he began scratching desperately at the Marmite covering the rest of him.

"Careful!" Sweden scolded as Denmark came close to smacking him. By this point, he and Norway were having trouble with leverage, since the beer had gotten too deep for them to keep their feet planted. "You're not helping, you know."

"How's it going over there, guys?" Norway called to the door-opening team.

"Not great," said Iceland. "I'm about to go back and find something to pry with."

"Hurrrrrryyyyyyyy!" Denmark wailed. "Ohgodohgodohgod, this is not how I wanted to die!"

"Yes it is," said Sweden, both because he was a stickler for accuracy and because he hoped that having something to talk about would keep Denmark calm (even if the subject matter made it a long shot). "Remember a couple of months ago? We were drinking and we had that conversation about how we would want to die if we could pick anything except old age? I said a botched attempt at uploading my brain onto the Internet and Norway said being eaten by a giant fish and you finally settled on drowning in beer."

"I'VE CHANGED MY MIND! SEX MARATHON, SEX MARATHON!"

"STOP FREAKING OUT! YOU'RE GOING TO BE FINE!" Sweden insisted.

Denmark thrashed frantically, and at that point the Marmite finally reached the saturation point and fell apart into rapidly dissolving blobs. Denmark kicked, launching himself away from the wall, and plunged under for a second or two before getting control of himself and his movement. He surfaced, sputtering and shaking his drenched hair out of his face. "Hey, it actually worked," he said.

"Of course, everything _we_ did had nothing to do with it," said Sweden.

"We're not in the clear yet," said Norway. "They still haven't gotten the door open. Come on."

Swimming freely by now, the three of them joined the others. Iceland had found in the annex a mangled piece of metal something-or-other which was now stuck between the door and the frame, holding it ajar…but the beer was still flooding into the corridor faster than it was flowing out, and every time they tried to pull the door further open, the resulting current would force it back.

"This is getting ridiculous," said Åland. "Where is it all coming from? The tank wasn't _that_ big; it defies the laws of physics!"

"Since when do ghosts bother with the laws of physics?" said Sweden.

"Have you tried getting into the gap and _pushing_ it open?" asked Norway.

"We thought of that," said Iceland, "but none of us fit."

All eyes turned to Denmark. He got very shifty-eyed for a moment. "Uh…you're pretty thin, Sweden. Why don't you give it a shot?"

"Get down there," said Sweden, pushing him under. Denmark jerked out from under his hand and gave him a reproachful look before holding his breath and diving.

It was easier to see under the beer than he had anticipated; on the other side of the door was the vehicle garage, open to the outside where it was broad daylight. It had been easy to forget the time, traipsing around the dark factory. Denmark carefully stuck his arm into the open space, braced himself against the floor, and gave the door a shove. It bounced back almost instantly, and Denmark hastily returned to the surface for air.

"I think it'll work, but I can't do it by myself," he said.

"I'll go with you," said Norway, surprising no one. The two of them ducked beneath the beer simultaneously. By this time, there wasn't much _above_ the beer left.

"We'd better _all _help," said Sweden. "We're almost out of air." He gripped the top of the door, pressed his other hand against the ceiling for stability, and pulled.

"You make a good point," said Iceland, joining in. So did the other two, Finland stabbing the wall in order to make a handhold. With all six of them working at it, the door yielded, slowly at first…until they got it past the 90-degree mark, and then the current grabbed it and slammed it open the rest of the way, and the beer rushed out of the doorway as a flash flood, carrying them all with it. They were summarily deposited on the garage floor, splayed out like a living, breathing (well, coughing) alluvial fan, but the gush continued for the several minutes it took to drain the entire hallway and annex, hundreds of thousands of liters of frothy pale lager bursting to freedom in the brewery's truck yard.

* * *

><p>It was a few minutes after <em>that<em> before anyone moved. Sweden sat up first, straightening his glasses and shaking his head to clear it. "Everybody's alive, right?" he said. A chorus of groans answered him, punctuated with "yes" and "yeah" and "I'm okay" and "perkele." They pulled themselves together, wrung out their clothes as best they could, and took stock of things.

They were all uninjured, if not exactly comfortable. The garage and everything in it, including themselves, were drenched in beer to a height of a meter or more, but the torrent had subsided to a trickle which was taking the path of least resistance to a floor drain. There was no evidence of the Beer Ghost's presence.

"Well, guys," said Iceland, toeing a puddle of suds, "we did it. There's no salvaging this stuff."

"It seems almost a waste, doesn't it?" said Norway.

"Not really," said Denmark. "It was terrible beer. I got some of it in my mouth."

"You didn't swallow it, did you?" said Sweden. "Remember what Greenland said."

"Of course not," said Denmark. "I have _some_ standards. And this stuff is clearly crap. Even considering that it wasn't finished, it's crap. How does anyone manage to screw up _beer_ that badly? It's not like it's some bold new experimental recipe or anything! _Ancient Sumeria_ knew how to make it!"

"I think I _did_ swallow some," said Åland from the floor. "Just a little."

"If you need to puke or anything," said Denmark, "I think I left my bag in here somewhere."

"No, I'm fine," said Åland. "I'm just agreeing with you that it's crap beer."

"So now what?" said Iceland. "Did we win?"

"Not quite," said Sweden. "We spoiled the 'special brew' and probably the ghost's chances of making any more, but it's still around…and like you said before, it must be mad as hell. We should get out of the open. I say we head back to the safe room and plan our next step there."

"Sounds good," said Norway. They got going. It was almost a shame to leave the daylit garage for the blacked-out hallways of the factory, especially now that they had lost nearly all their light sources.

"And maybe while we're figuring it out, we can get started on that sex marathon!" said Denmark. "Since the universe was kind enough to listen to me and all."

"So having escaped death by drowning in beer, you're now suicidal and want to boink your way to fatal exhaustion, is that it?" said Sweden. "Because that's basically what you're saying."

"No it isn't," Denmark said, furrowing his brow. "Uh…wait…

"We could use a break, actually," said Norway as they reached the central distillery. "Maybe even a nap."

"Not all at once, though," said Åland. "At least two of us should stand guard. If we all fell asleep the ghost would be certain to attack. Hang on a second." He moved over to lean against the wall, wincing.

"Sweetie, are you all right? Do you feel sick?" Sweden asked, hurrying to his side.

"Not exactly…I just…I wish we hadn't thrashed that vat and spilled all that beer."

"Done is done," said Sweden. "All things considered, it worked out pretty well. You'll feel better with a little rest and some water."

"That's a matter of opinion," Åland muttered. "I'm starting to think maybe we should just let the ghost win."

"You are feeling sick," said Sweden. "You don't have to pretend you're all right just because Finland's here." He glanced up at the other nation as he said his name, and noticed that he was backing away slowly, reaching for his knife. Suddenly Denmark yelped, and when Sweden looked back at his boyfriend, Åland's eyes were glowing with ghostly luminescence.

"We're spoiling everything, honey," he said, suddenly gripping Sweden's arms. "It would be so much better if the ghost won."

"Åland…sweetie…what are you talking about?" said Sweden, his voice quavering.

"You'll understand when we're _all_ ghosts under its command." A mad grin grew on Åland's face.

To Be Continued…

* * *

><p><em>AN: Moar drama! Moar suspense! What the hell is happening to my silly little fanfic? At least the Marmite joke was funny, right?_

_Incidentally, Marmite is not actually banned in Denmark, though that's a common misconception. But it might as well be—it's legally classified as a vitamin supplement, meaning that retailers have to have a special license to sell it, and the company that makes the stuff doesn't have said license. It's funnier to think that it's so nasty, even Denmark won't allow it anywhere near him._


	8. Chapter 7

"_Guys?_" Sweden squawked, horrorstruck, wrenching himself out of Åland's grip and retreating. He wasn't sure what was going on with his boyfriend, but he really didn't like the sound of that "when we're all ghosts" bit…

"Come on, Sweden, gimme a kiss," said Åland in a sweet tone that only underscored the disturbing nature of his condition. He lunged for Sweden…but Norway lunged for him and got him in a firm armlock from behind. While he struggled and snarled imprecations mostly having to do with fish, Iceland moved in and got hold of his legs. Between the two of them, they wrestled him to the ground and held him there. He was thrashing with what seemed like supernaturally enhanced strength, however, and even after Denmark and Finland joined the dogpile, it seemed like he might break free.

"Let me up!" he demanded. "How dare you keep me away from him!"

"Go on!" Norway told Sweden. "Stay out of the way someplace. We'll figure out what to do and call you when it's safe."

Sweden looked conflicted—and no wonder—but he nodded and hurried off out of sight…taking his penlight with him, unfortunately. They were left with only the usual combo of unwashed skylights and eldritch eyeglow for illumination.

"Sweden, come back!" Åland pled. "You idiots ruined it! It would have been so _beautiful_! When I get my hands on you—"

They never heard the details of the threat, because at that point Finland finally managed to draw his knife and clobber his cousin senseless with the handle. He made a rare smirk of satisfaction as the others marginally relaxed.

"You enjoyed that," Norway said with a hint of accusation.

"All right, great teamwork, everyone!" said Denmark. "Now…does anyone know a good exorcist?"

"I don't think he's possessed. Not exactly," said Iceland. "Possession is when a spirit takes over your body and uses it as its own. But he was still talking as himself. It seems more like some sort of brainwashing. I'm pretty sure it was swallowing the beer that did it, though, so let's call it…'under the influence.'"

"So he's drunk?" said Norway.

"No," said Iceland. "Well…maybe. It couldn't hurt to try sobering him up and see if that fixes it."

"There's an employee lounge around here somewhere," said Denmark. "It might still have some coffee."

"Can you do any better than 'somewhere?'" said Norway. "I don't like the idea of wandering around aimlessly, in the dark, when we don't know how long he'll stay out _and_ the Beer Ghost is still…_shit_."

"What?" Denmark and Iceland said together.

"I just sent Sweden off _by himself_. With the ghost still running around!"

"_Shit_ is right! What should we do?" said Denmark.

"Uh, uh, uh," said Norway, looking around as though a spring was going to pop out with a pamphlet entitled "WHAT YOU SHOULD DO" on the end of it.

Finland facepalmed. He pointed to Norway, Denmark, and the recumbent Åland, then stood and began to follow the route Sweden had taken, motioning for Iceland to accompany him.

"Well, I guess that settles it," said Norway.

"I keep forgetting what an expressive language Finnish is," said Denmark. "Let's go—I think I remember how to get to that lounge."

Hoisting Åland fore and aft like a lightweight sofa, the two of them headed off.

* * *

><p><em>Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…<em>

The demon known to Iceland as Sauma (and to itself as a string of alien characters that would melt your eyeballs if you looked at them without protective shielding blessed by clergy of at least three faiths) gnawed with single-minded purpose at the ghost fence. It was made of tough stuff, but not tougher than infernal teeth, not after Finland had upset its mystical equilibrium by smashing a beer bottle on it. _Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…_

From time to time, a bit more spirit vapor would flake away, and the assembled small ghosts, their ranks swelling by the minute, would raise a ghostly cheer. Weak ghosts such as these are not known for their attention span, and not too many of them remembered anymore _why_ they were cheering at the deterioration of the barrier, but the pattern was set, and ghosts are, as a rule, creatures of routine.

Sauma, though, remembered with magma-bright clarity why he was gnawing. He was tired of being stuck in this stupid enclosure with these stupid undead things. He wanted to see his sparkly friend again, and maybe play a game of chase with him that would end in a good old-fashioned predator-prey hamstringing.

_Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…_

* * *

><p>It was a few minutes before Sweden stopped to catch his breath and make sure he had a proper grip on his own state of mind.<p>

Åland had attacked him. His _boyfriend_ had tried, or at least threatened (it certainly sounded like a veiled threat), to _kill_ him! He wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Horrified? That seemed like the obvious answer, but it wasn't Åland's fault he had accidentally swallowed some evil beer, and on balance it was no worse than the ghost's other shenanigans so far. Frightened? Not really, now that he was out of immediate danger. Worried? Yeah, that was more like it. There was no telling when or how they would snap Åland out of it, or how badly it might be traumatizing _him_ in the meantime.

Sweden hated worrying. It was such an _unproductive_ emotion, and yet so unavoidable when it was called for. He would have to find some way of distracting himself…such as figuring out where he had wound up.

This part of the complex had some grimy windows high in one wall, admitting a little daylight, but otherwise it had a dismal, unfinished feel to it: concrete walls, cement floor, exposed, thrumming pipes. It was unsettling until he turned another corner and found himself facing a double bank of combination lockers with a bench running the length of the space between them. At the far end of that—glory of glories!—was a tiled wall lined with shower stalls.

"Thank _god_," Sweden muttered to himself, striding toward the showers and squelching beerily with every step. This was better than a distraction. He tested the nearest spigot—the water was cold and at first slightly rust-tinged, but at least it was flowing. _I'll have to let the others know these are working…_ he mused as he stripped down, trying to ignore how chilly it was in the locker room. Seriously, whose idea was it to build locker rooms so drafty? The designers did know what they were _for_, right? And this one was draftier than most. It almost felt like someone had left open the door to a giant…refrigerator…

Suddenly alarmed, Sweden looked all around. The Beer Ghost was nowhere in sight, but there was no mistaking that creeping chill. It was here. Making as little noise as possible, he gathered up his clothes and possessions into a neat, moist bundle and crept along the row of showers, hoping to find another exit from the facility. There was a second double row of lockers, but nothing else. A dead end. And right about now, Sweden really, _really_ wished they weren't called that. He got underneath the bench for what cover it could provide and waited, heart pounding. The ghost was _definitely_ approaching—he could hear the faint sloshing noise of its movement from the passage opposite the showers. He swallowed hard and continued to wait…any second now, it would be parallel with his row, and he would find out how much concealment the bench really afforded.

Not enough, as it turned out. Just his luck. "**YOU!**" came the all-too-familiar bellow. Sweden scrambled out from under the bench, hugging his things to his chest as he made a break for the shower stalls. But, well…it's hard to run while clutching something, and harder still if you're completely nude, and he skidded on the smooth cement and careened into the dead end, falling flat on his back. The Beer Ghost loomed over him, its irate expression fading to a sort of sly amusement as its goggling eyes wandered over his body.

"Are you…_checking me out_?" Sweden demanded. "Stop it! Th-that's _weird_! You're dead! _Eeuugh!_" He held the bundle strategically over his crotch.

The ghost's savage expression returned and it made as if to pounce on him…only to erupt in an agonized shriek as something leapt from the nearest bank of lockers and raked down its back, creating a sound not unlike tearing fabric. The ghost folded in on itself, becoming a little globe of eldritch light which then vanished, its scream fading away as though retreating into the distance.

Its attacker remained crouched on the floor for a moment before rising, shaking spirit residue off its weapon, and extending a hand to help Sweden to his feet. It was Finland, and the look on his face dared the other country, just _dared_ him to make a big sentimental deal over what had just happened.

"Finland!" Sweden blew, accepting the hand up. "Am I glad to see you! Wow…how long has it been since the last time I said that?"

Finland only shrugged and began inspecting his knife.

Iceland arrived soon after that. "Finland? I heard—oh, Sweden! Was that the ghost just now? What happened to it?"

"Finland wounded it and it disappeared. I think it's just hiding, though. It'll be back. There's a whole truck yard full of puddles it can slurp up to recover its strength."

"Good thing he got here in time. When we realized you were by yourself with that thing still on the prowl…" Iceland trailed off, looking puzzled. "Why are you naked?"

"I was going to shower. Our 'friend' showed up before I got the chance. But we all might as well have a wash as long as we're waiting for Norway's call."

"Yeah…about that…" said Iceland. "Is your phone even working after getting soaked like that? Because mine's trashed."

That hadn't even occurred to Sweden. He found his phone in the bundle and grimaced when he saw the flashing red Error light. "_Helvete!_" he swore. "I just bought this phone. I guess we'd better go find them. We shouldn't stay separated with no reliable means of contact."

"Pity," said Iceland. "I could really use a shower. My sparkles have been drooping ever since we got dunked."

"Besides," Sweden continued, "I feel bad for running out on Åland like that. Even if he was targeting me, he's my boyfriend and I should be there for him."

"Aw, that's sweet. Senseless, but sweet. This is why I don't date."

Sweden began to put his clothes back on. They felt clammier than ever. "I thought it was because you considered yourself out of everyone's league."

"That too. Finland? You ready to head back?"

The taciturn nation hadn't moved since helping Sweden to his feet. He simply stood, examining his knife, turning it over in his hand and occasionally sniffing the blade for some reason.

"Is that just your regular knife?" said Sweden, pausing in the middle of re-tying his shoes. "How did you get it to work on the ghost?"

"OH!" Iceland said. "It's awesome. But I'll wait to explain it until we're all back together."

* * *

><p>Remembering the location of the employee lounge was one thing. Getting there without a decent light source (they were clean out of working flashlights, and the striker in Denmark's cigarette lighter was wet) while carrying an unconscious person who might at any moment wake up and resume threatening and assaulting them was something else again. They had to navigate mostly by touch, which was slow enough that by the time they got there, Åland was beginning to stir. They set him in a chair and tied him firmly to it with a pair of old extension cords, then started hunting through drawers and cupboards in the attached kitchenette.<p>

"Even if we find some coffee, how will we brew it?" asked Norway. "There's no electricity to run the coffeemaker. Or do you have an antique steam-powered one of those too?"

"Uh…no," said Denmark. "We'll have to…uh…I'll have to get my lighter to light, and then we can put coffee grounds in a cup with some water and use the lighter to heat the cup until the water boils, and then let it sit until it's coffee."

Norway recoiled. "That's _abominable_! No filters? No proper percolation? I don't think I can be part of such an atrocity!"

"That's okay, I think I can manage on my own. Keep an eye on Åland and make sure he doesn't escape or anything."

Norway returned to the main part of the lounge. Åland was fully awake by now, his eyes still spectrally glowing and throwing odd, angular light patterns on the walls. "I suppose you think you're clever," he said in a perfect captured-villain-about-to-sow-doubt tone of voice.

Norway smiled pleasantly while pulling up his own chair and sitting on it backwards so that he could rest his arms on the backrest. "Whether I am or not, _you're_ still the one tied up."

"No matter what you do to me, you'll never get me to talk. I'm feeling no pain right now!"

"We're not trying to get you to talk. How's it going in there, Denmark?"

"I found some decaf. I'm gonna keep looking. I think my lighter's almost dry, so that's good."

"He's making coffee?" said Åland. "But it's the middle of the day; what could he possibly—" His eyes widened and the glow intensified. "It's for me, isn't it? You're a monster! Seeking to deprive me of my master's voice at a time like this…"

"I'm sure you'll forgive us in time."

"Hey, here's some real coffee!" said Denmark. "And I got a light! We're in business! How are things out there?"

"Nothing special to report," said Norway. "Åland's raving a little."

"Oh, is it that thing where they talk in a whole bunch of voices at once? I saw that in a movie once."

"No, it's just the one. Why?"

"Ow!" Denmark exclaimed. "Burned my thumb. Are you sure?" he went on, peeking out of the kitchenette. "Because I could have sworn I heard more than one voice."

"Perhaps it is my master you hear," said Åland with an extra dash of creepy.

"I doubt it. It sounds like Iceland. And Sweden. Hey, the others are coming!"

"I'll be right back," said Norway, getting up. "Denmark, don't take your eyes off him."

"Right," said Denmark. He really wanted to do that thing where you point to both your eyes and then at the person you're watching, but he needed both hands to keep heating the cup.

Norway met the other three in the hallway just outside the lounge. "How did you find us?"

"It wasn't that hard. You dripped the whole way here," said Sweden. "How is he?"

"About the same," said Norway. "Maybe you shouldn't be here."

"I'm trying to be supportive."

"Well, I guess it can't hurt. We have him tied up."

The other three followed Norway into the lounge, where Denmark and Åland were having a staring contest. The water in Denmark's cup was beginning to steam. Åland spotted Sweden right away, and the glare dropped off his face.

"Sweden! Babe! You gotta get me out of here! These two have gone _crazy_!"

Sweden was taken aback. He felt the blush start to creep up his face. There was something undeniably…well, _hot_ about his boyfriend tied up in a chair and begging him for help. Not to mention he (like all of them) was still all damp and sticky and smelled like the floor of a seedy bar… Sweden shook his head violently and hoped his _other_ head would get the message. This was neither the time nor the place!

"Hey," said Iceland. "You think if we killed him right now, he'd automatically turn into a Beer Ghost?"

Finland brandished his knife and grinned in a way that could only be translated as "There's one way to find out…"

"Touch my boyfriend, and I will annex your backyard and build an open-air rave club on it," Sweden growled. "Iceland, don't encourage him."

"Is the coffee, if you choose to call it that, ready yet?" asked Norway.

"It's getting there," said Denmark. "It's not going to be very _good_ coffee. Actually, it's going to be pretty crappy coffee. But only Åland has to drink it, so that's all right."

"Don't let them do this to me, Sweden!" Åland said. "My master will be _furious_ with me!"

"I'm pretty sure your master is furious with all of us as it is," said Sweden. "Hang on a second. Åland? Can you tell us where your master is now? What's the Beer Ghost doing right now?"

"I'm not telling you a thing, _traitor_," Åland spat.

"He sure gets moody when he's been drinking, doesn't he?" said Iceland.

"It runs in his family," said Sweden.

"Here we go! Done! I think," said Denmark. "At least it smells like coffee."

"Crappy underdone coffee to counteract crappy underdone beer," said Norway. "It almost makes sense."

"You think you're so clever," Åland said for a second time, "but how do you intend to make me drink it?"

Norway went around behind Åland's chair, grabbed his head, held his nose, and pried his mouth open. "Give me the cup!" he said. Denmark handed it over, and Norway deftly poured the weak concoction down Åland's throat, along with a good portion of the soggy grounds. Then he clamped his mouth shut and held on until he swallowed on pure reflex. "There," Norway said. "Just like giving my bear his vitamins."

Åland made one gagging cough and then shrieked with rage and started thrashing so hard against his bonds that he tipped the chair over sideways. Sweden cringed in sympathy, but stayed where he was, waiting to see whether the treatment would work. Åland stopped squirming, his fury subsiding into heavy panting.

"How soon do you think we'll know?" Denmark muttered.

Åland began blinking rapidly, his luminescent eyes watering. He squeezed them shut, plunging the room into darkness. Sweden snapped on his penlight. "Sweetie…?" he said tentatively. Åland's eyes reopened…and were normal.

"My guess would be: not very long," said Iceland.

"Tell me," Åland said, "that my memory of the last hour is just a nightmare brought on by that godawful beer."

There was a general cheer. Sweden hurried over to right the chair and untie his grimacing boyfriend. "Welcome back, guy!" said Denmark, clapping Åland on the back.

"I am so, _so_ sorry, guys," said Åland. "Especially to you, Sweden. I must have scared the crap out of you."

"It's all right," said Sweden. "You didn't mean it, no one got hurt, and now you're back to normal. If you want, we can pretend it never happened at all."

"My coffee idea worked _great_, didn't it?" said Denmark. "I knew it would. When I need to sober up in a hurry, I always…" He trailed off, his eyes growing wide.

"Is something wrong?" asked Norway.

"No!" said Denmark. "Guys! Remember what Greenland said we'd need to defeat the ghost? _It's coffee!_ _Coffee is the anti-beer!_"

To Be Continued…

* * *

><p><em>AN: You know what's kind of funny about all this? I don't actually drink beer **or** coffee._


	9. Chapter 8

Spooky Brew—Chapter 8

The really amazing thing—the thing so amazing that Sweden was toying with the idea of ordering specially printed ribbons to commemorate it—was that no one could find a single flaw in Denmark's reasoning. Coffee as the polar opposite of beer, undoing its effects, made _sense_. There was nothing magical about it; people did it every day. They had just _witnessed_ it working.

"The only question is," said Sweden as they discussed it back in the secure room, "will we be able to find enough coffee in this place? The ghost must have drunk thousands of liters of beer by now."

"Who says we have to find it here?" said Norway. "I've got tons of coffee at home. Literally—I just did my quarterly restocking run a couple of weeks ago."

"Wait, can we do that?" said Iceland. "Just leave and come back?"

"I don't see why not," said Denmark. "The three of us did it once before. Come on, let's get the hell out of here. We can take a few hours to clean up, replace our gear, and work out how to use the coffee without having to worry about the ghost sneaking up on us."

"Can we be sure it won't _follow_ us?" said Sweden.

"Yes," said Åland simply. "It's lying low for now, trying to rebuild its strength. At least, it was right before you guys cured me."

"It is so weird that you know that," said Denmark. "It's like you were wired into its mind! What else do you know?"

"Nothing helpful, I'm afraid. I'd really rather not think about it. Like you said, let's just get out of here for the time being."

"Okay, terrific!" said Denmark. "Meet back up at the front gate in two hours. No, wait, we have no idea what time it is now. Meet back up at the front gate at…four-thirty. That gives us plenty of time to get done what we need to and still make the coffee and defeat the ghost before it gets dark. We definitely don't want to stay here after dark with it still on the loose."

There was complete agreement, effectively doubling Sweden's theoretical ribbon-ordering workload.

They left the brewery by the same route they had used to enter, moving quickly to hedge their bets against being caught. Only once they had gotten beyond the main gate and shut it behind them were they able to relax.

"So far, so good," said Sweden. "So I guess…we're all going home?"

Most everyone nodded. "Not me, I'm going with you," said Åland. "I think what I really need is to nap for a bit, and I hate trying to sleep when Finland's wide awake. I'm always paranoid that he'll attack me in my sleep."

Finland shrugged as if to say "Fair enough, I probably would."

"That sounds…perfect, actually," said Sweden. The gathering started to break up. "Go on ahead, sweetie. I need to talk to Finland for a second, actually."

That got strange looks from both of them, but Åland went ahead.

Finland gave Sweden a mild glare that translated as "_What?_"

"I don't think I properly thanked you for pulling my fat out of the fire back there. So…thanks."

Shrug.

"It's nice to know that despite everything, you don't _literally_ want me dead."

Disbelieving sneer.

"Well, what am I supposed to make of it?"

Looking vaguely embarrassed, Finland fished something out of his jeans pocket and tossed it at Sweden. It was a folded piece of paper. Despite being heavily creased and only just starting to dry off after the beer flood, it had held up pretty well. This turned out to be because it was a high-quality glossy photo of Sweden's sister. What she was doing in the photo isn't important, and anyway Sweden glazed over it because it was either that or suffer an acute attack of hysterical blindness. But the message was clear enough, especially with all the smudges that were disturbingly reminiscent of lip prints.

"I see," he said, handing it back. "I guess I should be thanking her then." Finland snorted and walked off.

Sweden took a long look at the brewery before taking his own leave of the place. From the outside, it looked deceptively normal—just a closed-up building with nothing happening. And for now, maybe nothing _was_ happening.

For now.

* * *

><p>He must have rented a forklift. That was the only conceivable way Norway could have transported that much coffee on such short notice. Not to mention it was wrapped in plastic on a pallet and everything: big family-sized canisters stacked eight to a side and six deep. In sum, that made…a <em>lot<em> of coffee.

And they were going to brew _all_ of it, every last grain. To that end, Sweden had brought a generator capable of powering one of the modern, non-Brynhildr machinery arrays in the factory. When the coffee was ready, they would pipe it into the bottling facility, where the profusion of tanks and hoses and nozzles and conveyor belts—everything needed to make bottled beer happen—would in this case enable them to target the Beer Ghost no matter where in the room it was.

The other complication was going to be leading it there at the right time…as well as keeping it out of the way beforehand. The tentative plan was that half of them would sweep the brewery, flush out the ghost, and lead and/or drive it as necessary, while the other half were seeing to the coffee. With that in mind, Finland and Iceland revealed their ace in the hole.

"We found a way to make regular weapons work on the ghost," said Iceland. "Go on, show them!"

Finland whipped out his bottle of rotgut with a flourish and uncorked it. There arose an eye-stingingly powerful odor of alcohol, onions, and vinegar, with overtones of aniseed, bread mold, and probably other things, although only a bloodhound with a reckless disregard for its own health and sanity could have made them out. It seemed Sister Finland had gone with her usual ingredients list consisting of everything that was already starting to go bad in the fridge, pantry, and possibly garage. Finland spilled a few drops on the blade of his knife and recorked the bottle, much to everyone's relief. He began spreading the slop around evenly, and surely it was only by some sort of technicality that it didn't instantly dissolve the metal.

"So, what do you think?" said Iceland.

"And this works…how?" said Sweden.

"Think about it: The ghost is a spirit of beer, right? Well, Finland's sister _makes_ spirits at home, and whatever else you can say about her recipes, they're _way_ stronger than beer. It's like hitting the ghost with a more concentrated version of its own power!"

"Aw, man, why couldn't we have figured that out several hours ago?" Denmark complained.

The final issue was that of communication. Finland had this covered too—he brought out half a dozen shiny, fully-charged Nokia cell phones and handed out five of them with a sharp look that clearly said "These are _loaners_, so don't get any ideas."

By lifting in concert, the six of them were able to move the pallet. They had to go in through the double door that was the main entrance of the brewery, so stealth was right out, but they were beyond caring. They set up on the central factory floor, rearranging some of the equipment on the spot to make it more suitable for its new task. Then they hit a snag.

"Uh, Denmark?" said Norway. "Your copper here uses a gas heating element. The gas is shut off, isn't it?"

Denmark stopped dumping coffee grounds into the malt hopper and ran over to look. "Shit, I forgot about that," he said. "We'll have to jury-rig something. Sweden? Do you know to convert a gas-powered heat source into an electric heat source using only items we already have or can find in the next five minutes?"

"_What?_" Sweden said incredulously. "What kind of question is that?"

"Let me see that," said Iceland, peering at the situation. It was pretty straightforward—a circular gas tube like that on a kitchen range, only much larger, sitting in a frame that held it several centimeters above the floor. "Okay, I got this. Stand back, everyone. Denmark, I hope you're not too fond of the floor in here." With that, he took a deep breath and slammed his hands against the cement. A fan-shaped array of cracks spread out from the point of impact, running underneath the copper. Several seconds later, thin plumes of glowing lava spurted up out of the floor and licked the bottom of the vessel. Iceland remained in place, frowning with great concentration.

"Nicely done!" said Denmark. "That'll work great!"

"Can't talk," Iceland grunted. "Need to focus."

"It's because you have hardly any natural seismicity here," Norway told Denmark. "He's working from scratch. So I guess he'll need to stay here until the coffee's ready. Who wants to go after the ghost?"

With an expression of total resolve, Finland raised his liquor-coated knife so that light glinted off the blade even though there was hardly any light to glint. It even made that little "tching" noise.

"I'll go too," said Åland. "I owe that dead bastard a smackdown. Finland, let me see your bottle. Don't give me that look; I just need to spike this thing." He brandished his own weapon: a boning knife borrowed from Sweden's kitchen.

"Maybe I should be the third one," said Sweden.

"No," said Denmark. "I'll go."

"Why you?" said Åland.

"Come on," said Denmark. "You two…_plus Sweden_? Never gonna work. Together, the two of you can open a double-sized can of Finnish whoopass on the Beer Ghost until the end of time, but the instant Sweden gets involved, all that glorious psychopathic cooperation goes right out the window."

"He does have a point," said Norway.

"And Norway and Iceland both need to stay here and work on the coffee. I'm the only one left," Denmark continued. Besides, it's _my_ brewery and my fault the ghost is here in the first place and I've got some of my own smack to lay down."

"I guess we can't argue with that," said Åland. "All right, let's get going."

"Right now?" said Denmark.

"Yes. Right now."

* * *

><p>It wouldn't be quite true to say that they had no idea where to look for the ghost. Åland had <em>some<em> idea, based on impressions he had gotten while "under the influence." But he didn't want to talk about it.

"Isn't finding the ghost more important than your comfort zone?" Denmark challenged him the first time it came up.

"No."

So they looked everywhere, methodically, room by room and corridor by corridor. No space, not even a janitor's storage closet, was deemed too small or too insignificant to be investigated as a possible hiding place. But they kept coming up empty.

Finally, their search led them to an unpleasantly familiar place: the vehicle service bay where they had landed after the beer flood. It was still sopping wet and stank of the ghost's grossly inferior product, although the actual flow of beer from the annex seemed to have finally stopped. Out in the truck yard, some of the puddles had already dwindled to damp patches.

This was likely because the Beer Ghost was right there, lapping at the ground like a thirsty dog.

The three of them pulled back out of sight before it could notice them.

"Well, we found it," Denmark hissed. "Now what?"

"Now we get its attention, but on our terms," said Åland. "What do you think, Finland? Surprise decoy maneuver?" Finland nodded once. "Denmark, do you know that one?"

"I don't think so," said Denmark.

"Good." Acting as one, the cousins each planted a hand on Denmark's back and gave him a fierce shove, so that he stumbled out into the middle of the service bay with a squawk of alarm.

"What the fucking hell was _that_ for? You two are such unbelievable assholes! I swear, one of these—" He broke off as he realized he was shouting and looked up in horror to see the Beer Ghost already barreling toward him. He let out a scream of unmitigated panic and flung himself backward, only to crash painfully into a tipped-over tool cabinet and fall over.

Before the ghost reached him, Finland and Åland interposed themselves, holding their weapons at the ready. Perhaps the ghost recognized the sheen on their blades, because it veered off with a startled wail and headed toward the annex. Finland sprang after it right away, growling. Åland paused to yank Denmark upright.

"You were supposed to run away," he scolded. "So it would chase you? And once we got the signal we could lead it to the bottling department? Remember that?"

"_So_ sorry for not acting according to the plan I didn't know anything about," Denmark retorted. "You didn't tell me _I_ was going to be the decoy."

"If I had, it wouldn't have been a surprise," was the smug reply. "Do try to keep up."

They ran down the hallway and into the annex, where the wan light coming through the skylights afforded them an excellent impression of the destruction they had wrought. What had once been a revolutionary (for its time) engine of beer production was now mostly a disarrayed series of clusters of burst pipes and dented tanks.

"Oh, _man_, how am I ever going to get this cleaned up in time to open the museum?" Denmark muttered.

"One thing at a time," said Åland. "We're looking for the ghost."

"And Finland?"

"Sure…if we happen to run into him."

They soon heard the Beer Ghost among the rubble, its voice unusually soft and maddeningly directionless as it reverberated throughout all the crumpled metal. "…**uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh**…" From time to time, there would be a _clunk_ as something shifted in the mess.

"It's playing with us," said Denmark. "This is _creepy_."

"You wanted to come," Åland pointed out.

Just then, there came a resounding crash as some part of the half-collapsed Brynhildr finished collapsing somewhere in the annex. It was loud, but the bellow of "_Perkele!_" from the same direction was louder still.

Denmark and Åland hurried toward the source of the noise and found Finland crawling shakily out of the ruins of an iron boiler and various assorted pipes. He got to his feet, as wobbly as a newborn reindeer.

"Are you all right?" said Denmark. Finland waved off his concern…with his knife hand, so Denmark didn't question it further.

"I assume the ghost did this. Where is it now?" said Åland.

Finland shook his head, indicating that he didn't know. The non-locatable "…**uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh**…" transitioned to a wicked chuckle.

"Why don't you come out and fight fair?" Denmark demanded out loud. "It's because you're scared, isn't it? We know how to hurt you now!"

"Denmark, shut the hell up," said Åland. Part of the surrounding wreckage shuddered, and he whirled around just as a spectral pseudopod came lashing out of it toward the group. While Denmark squalled in alarm, it seized Åland around the waist and began dragging him back toward the mounded metal. Åland made a savage roar, dug in his heels, and slashed at the appendage with his boning knife. The ectoplasm parted like tissue paper, the ghost shrieked and retreated, and the severed tentacle dissolved.

What it dissolved into was beer, but all three of them were long past being surprised by things like that.

"God, what an amateur," Åland said. "Finland, let me see your bottle. I need to recharge my knife."

Finland didn't look too happy about losing another splash of his homebrew, but he took out the bottle and began to hand it to his cousin, only to have it snatched right out of his hand—

—by Denmark, who began sprinting for the exit with it. "Hey, deadhead!" he called back over his shoulder. "You want to know our secret? It's this! I'm going to go find a machine gun and soak _all_ the bullets in this stuff! I dare you to try and stop me!"

With a howl, the Beer Ghost burst out of the rubble and gave chase.

"I'll be damned," said Åland while Finland, slack-jawed, his right eye twitching, tried to figure out whether Denmark had just committed a capital offense or not. (Ordinarily the answer would have been an unambiguous _yes_—he had _stolen_ Finland's _liquor bottle_—but there was always the possibility that "baiting a ghost" counted as a mitigating circumstance.) "Denmark actually came up with a good idea!"

As if on cue, their phones chimed to indicate an incoming text message. It was from Sweden. "There's the signal," said Åland. "Denmark! It's go time!"

Denmark's panicked yell rang up the hallway.

* * *

><p>"So now what?" said Norway. "We just wait?"<p>

"We just wait," Sweden confirmed, staring steadily at the fill gauge on the side of the main tank. Once Norway had pronounced the coffee "ready," they only had to open and close a few valves to send it chugging along to the bottling facility, and then their job on the brewing floor was done. But they checked to make sure that the java was traveling properly before sending out the text.

Iceland, newly relieved of kettle duty, sat slumped against a support pillar, letting laziness replenish his energy in the manner of the young. He thumbed through the menu of his borrowed phone and perked up. "All right! Check it out, Norway! This phone comes with _Angry Birds_ already installed!"

"Does it? That's great!" said Norway. "We can wail on some evil pigs until the others get here!"

"Focus, you two," said Sweden. "We don't know how long it will take them to get here. We have to be ready."

Sighing, they snapped the phones shut and readied the long fire hoses they had hooked up to the main tank. Sure enough, a moment later, the message came in from Åland: "Almost there."

"Positions!" Sweden barked. "Okay, here we go…"

It wasn't long before Denmark burst screaming into the plant. He was holding Finland's liquor bottle aloft like a sacred relic, and it was that more than Denmark himself that the Beer Ghost seemed fixated upon in its pursuit. It was only a few steps behind him, giving Norway and Iceland, in place on either side of the door, a mere fraction of a second to aim before turning the nozzles on full blast.

Immediately, the air was filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee—rich, slow-roasted, triple-ground, and with notes of vanilla, hazelnut, and—because this was after all Norway's coffee—cod. The first wash doused the ghost from the crown of what was approximately its head right down to what would have been its feet, if it had had anything remotely resembling feet.

And it barely noticed. Eyes locked on the bottle in Denmark's hands, it stormed right by the other two without giving them any acknowledgement beyond a simple blink to keep the spray of coffee from blinding it. They could only gasp in disbelief and watch as the ghost continued, unimpeded, to chase Denmark farther into the bottling facility.

At that point, Finland and Åland arrived, half-winded with exertion. "It didn't work," Sweden informed them, descending from his lookout position halfway up the ladder built onto the side of the main tank.

"I can't believe it," Norway lamented. "It was the perfect solution…and now all this coffee is _wasted_! This is the worst thing ever!"

"Well…" Åland said reasonably, "…the ghost didn't get this big and powerful by _swimming_ in beer, did it? And me too…you had to make me drink the coffee in order to counteract the beer I swallowed. Just dumping it on me wouldn't have worked, I'm sure."

"How are we _ever_ going to force the Beer Ghost to drink coffee?" said Iceland.

"We could try siccing Norway on it," Åland suggested.

There was a crescendoing yell as Denmark headed back toward their location with the ghost close on his heels. "_Take the bottle back, Finland! Take-it-take-it-take-it-take-it…_" Finland ignored him for the time being. As the pursuit passed them by, the rest of them took their first really good look at the ghost since their return to the brewery.

It looked mostly the same as it had just before the beer flood, except for the rough line running down its back where Finland had sliced it, down in the locker room. It didn't seem to be bothering the ghost any longer, but it was clearly the functional equivalent of a scar.

"Wait a second…" said Sweden. Without warning, he grabbed the hose away from Norway, ran after the ghost, and aimed a jet of coffee at its back, hitting the scar dead on.

_Now_ it noticed. Did it ever. With a noise that was less a shriek of pain and more a screech of shock, it pulled up short and began writhing and twitching as though in profound discomfort, and visibly shrank a little. Finally, it got control of itself and scrambled away, hiding among the bottling equipment. Denmark, realizing that he was no longer being chased, rejoined the group and gave the bottle back to Finland, who communicated via a devastatingly simple knife gesture that he'd better not ever swipe it like that again if he wanted to keep all his facial features where they were.

"_Bingo_," said Sweden. "Gentlemen, we are back in business! That scar is its weak point! If we can keep hitting it there, it's done for! Let's hook up some more hoses to the tank, spread out, and keep it surrounded. And Åland, Finland?" He grinned slyly. "I don't see any reason why it should have only _one_ weak point, do you?"

Åland matched his grin. "Ooh, I love it when you talk like this. Come, cousin," he said, holding out his knife so that Finland could drip a little more hard liquor onto it. "I still don't feel we've quite evened the score, do you?" They went on the hunt.

And that was the point at which the tables finally turned. The Beer Ghost was quick, and it was stubborn as a goat, but it was no match for four fire hoses full of caffeinated beany goodness and two knives spiked with booze at nearly ten times its own proof. As soon as the battle began, it was on the defensive—with Iceland spotting from the catwalks, they always knew where it was, and they moved to cut off every path it tried to take, especially the one leading toward the door. Before long, it was in a panic, squawking and flailing and apparently forgetting all about its own supernatural powers, because it didn't even try to use them. Even as they brought all their newly claimed advantages to bear against the ghost, the Nordic nations almost felt sorry for it.

Almost. _They_ hadn't forgotten about its supernatural powers—the Marmite, the evil brainwashing beer, the _hangover scream_—and that sort of memory will buy a whole lot of no pity at all.

Ironically enough, they didn't score many hits on it until the very end, when they finally trapped it in an intersection, advancing on it from all four directions with the hoses so that no matter which way it turned, it took the coffee full in the back (and also in a smaller cut that Åland had managed to land on its left side at one point). Before their eyes, the Beer Ghost dwindled.

"It's working!" said Norway. "Let's hear it for coffee!"

"How do you like _our_ 'special brew?'" Denmark taunted.

After less than a minute, it no longer towered over them. Another minute or two took it down to the size of a child. Then it shrank down the ranks of the great cartoon chain of being—from dog-sized to cat-sized, rabbit-sized, and finally its original, well-fed hamster size.

Good thing, too, because right about then the coffee ran out.

"We did it," Sweden said. Perhaps he should have felt exultant, but after everything they had been through, he was just relieved.

"Don't relax yet," said Åland as the ghost recovered from the onslaught and began zipping around, trying to find a way to get past them. "We really should catch it so it can't just start trouble somewhere else."

"A bottle will hold it," said Denmark. "There's bound to be some left in here."

He looked around to see if he could spot one, and the Beer Ghost took advantage of his momentary inattention to scoot between his feet and head for the exit with a gleeful cry of "_Suckers!_ Beer outside, here I come!"

"Crap, it's going after the puddles again!" said Iceland. "Quick, stop it or we'll have to do all this over again!" He darted after the fleeing spirit and dove to grab it, but along with its size and power it had also lost its tangibility, and it was like trying to catch smoke. He wound up flat on his face, and Finland, right behind him, tripped on him and toppled also. The ghost gained distance.

"I found a bottle!" said Denmark. "Where is it now?"

"There!" Iceland groaned as the ghost dashed free of the bottling facility.

"We'll never catch it at this rate!" Sweden wailed. They gave chase anyway, but the floor was slick with coffee and offered not nearly enough traction…

And then the Beer Ghost turned a corner in the hall, skidded to a halt with an expression of shock, and wheeled around to head back the way it had come. A rushing sound grew, and then a literal _stampede_ of small ghosts burst into view from around the corner. Some were stretched thin, others short and squat, and they came in every shade of pale luminescence—love ghosts and revenge ghosts and never-finished-the-last-chapter-of-that-book ghosts and chocolate ghosts and lawnmower ghosts. Had they been solid, the building would have been shaken by the tremor of their passage. With the momentum of a flood, they bowled right over the Beer Ghost.

And at the head of the procession was a creature as black as the soul-sucking ebon darkness of the infinite night, with glowing eyes, moving in a series of leaps so unnaturally fluid that they looked fake, like cheap computer animation.

"_Sauma!_" Iceland cheered from the floor. "You got out of that pen! Slow down, boy, I'm right here! Sauma? Sauma, slow _down_! Slow—AAAARRRRRGGGHHHHHH!" Overjoyed at being reunited with his master, the demon set about trying to flay the skin from his body. The horde of ghosts that had been following it spread throughout the bottling facility, hopping and cheering and trebling the level of surrealism in the situation.

The Beer Ghost had been trampled flat by the torrent. After a few seconds, it popped back up into its normal shape, but it was thoroughly disoriented, and Denmark easily walked up and scooped it into the bottle. Holding his hand over the mouth, he peered in at it. After a moment, it noticed him.

"Beer now?" it said. "Where is the beer?"

"Not here," said Denmark with a satisfied smile. "Not anymore."

* * *

><p>The sun was setting as they left the brewery. Happy Hour was approaching. How appropriate.<p>

"The world's beer supply is safe," Sweden observed. "Only one thing to do now."

"Drink as much of it as we can manage in one night?" said Denmark.

"Exactly," said Sweden. "I'm going to drink until I can't remember _anything_ that happened today."

"I'm going to drink until my liver rolls over and begs for mercy," said Norway.

"Oh yeah?" said Denmark. "_I'm_ going to drink until I OD and come back as a Beer Ghost!" At the others' incredulous stares, he backtracked. "Well, maybe not _that_ much. But a lot. Definitely a lot."

"What about all those other ghosts in there?" said Åland.

"They can wait until tomorrow," said Denmark. "And then? I'm going to make them Greenland's problem."

"I'll drink to that!" said Norway.

And they laughed. Sometimes, especially after a harrowing adventure with friends, a cheap joke can be funny even when you're stone-cold sober.

The End

* * *

><p><em>AN: While beginning work on this chapter, I realized I had a choice: end it around the usual length and drag the story out at least one **more** chapter, or keep going until the story was finished, making a special, extra-long finale. Obviously, I went with the latter. It didn't seem right to keep this ghost story running past Halloween._

_And on that subject, be sure to check back in about a month—I've got something super-duper special planned for December! See you then!_


End file.
